


In good hands

by DarkShadeless



Series: In good hands [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: (i really gotta stress how creepy I made this on purpose :P ), Asexual Character, Imperial Intelligence, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, Power Imbalance, handled not that greatly but at least they are kinda handled i guess, though that is mostly owed to the
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29741283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: On the same level as the med bay suits, Imperial Intelligence sports another much smaller and more exclusive department. It's knows throughout the intelligence branch only as 'Recalibration'.No Cipher that enters leaves quite the same person they came.
Relationships: Male Sith Inquisitor/Cipher Agents
Series: In good hands [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2201061
Comments: 188
Kudos: 53





	1. Recalibration

**Author's Note:**

> A completely self-indulgent collection of short stories and snippets set in the same AU under the premise 'What if Imp Int actually had someone responsible for taking care that their Ciphers don't burn out?' in their own creepy way, of course.  
> Thankfully for all people involved they gave the job to Yare, my Inquisitor (who is not Darth Nox, seeing as another department poached him). He'll take good care of the assets handed to him. It's what he does.  
> For the purpose of this AU, the existence of their keywords is something Ciphers are aware of.

„That’s quite the report.“ His Watcher is nigh impossible to read but Five is a Cipher. The calculation is easy to pick out for the likes of him. ‘ _How close is my asset to his maximum stress-level? How many cracks did the last mission put into them?_ ’

A few. How well has he hidden them? The answer: Not well and he knows it.

„Cipher Five.“

He does not quite flinch. It’s close. 

Watcher Seven purses their lips. Five doesn’t react. He keeps himself at ease, back straight and arms loose. If his fingers shake then Watcher can’t see them, at least.

It’s not enough.

A few more moments of silent inspection and when Watcher comes to their decision it’s not in Five’s favor. “Report for recalibration at your earliest convenience. Dismissed.”

Recalibration. Cipher Five marches back to his quarters on autopilot. He has never been but he has seen others go. That was more than enough.

Cipher Nine gets sent over most often. He’s their best but that only means he gets the worst missions. The more taxing the mission, the greater the strain. These days Nine is in for recalibration every time he gets recalled. When he comes back he’s only halfway there. Dazed.

He’s not the only one. Thirteen doesn’t go as often but she’s little better off, after. Head in the clouds. Distractible, until she settles again.

Seven… the less said about Seven the better.

Five could go on but it’s doing nothing for his nerves. He doesn’t exactly have a choice.

The door to his quarters that are little more than a glorified changing room with a bunk slapped on top hisses closed behind him and he leans against it heavily. It’s harder to control how much his hands shake now that no one’s looking. “ _Kriff_.”

It’s not a secret, as such. It’s not something hidden in the lowest part of the basement but to a Cipher that means less than nothing. The real place to hide something insidious is in plain sight.

That’s exactly what Imperial Intelligence has done with this. Recalibration is just around the corner of the med bay, just as well-lit and gleaming.

No one talks about what goes on in those rooms.

It’s smaller than the med-units, reserved for high level assets and even then… until now, Five has only caught the barest of glances of what is hidden away inside. He has seen even less of that than of the one in charge in there.

If the title above the door wasn’t enough to keep anyone with half a brain-cell far, far away? Who waits for them behind the triple-coded locks would.

Recalibration is headed by a Sith.

Five arrives promptly, in a perfectly pressed uniform, his professional mask in place as firmly as possible.

That’s not as firmly as he would like.

Foot traffic parts around him like a river for a rock. He can feel every furtive glance like a touch upon his skin. By the time his appointment rolls around, it’s crawling.

The door that will admit no one if they’re not meant to be inside opens on the dot. If Five hadn’t braced for it, he would have taken a step back.

The Sith is easily a head taller than he is and built like a tank. An alien, Twi’lek, green skin, dark-green markings and he files all of that away automatically while he forces himself to look up at inquisitive, purple eyes that look him over like he is an interesting lab specimen. “Cipher Five. Do come in.”

His voice is soft. That makes him no less dangerous.

Five tries not to remember Nine’s half-empty eyes after his last session and steps forward.

The door locks behind him. He doesn’t flinch.

The room itself is nothing special. Cabinets, shelving, all of them pristine and gleaming. If he didn’t know better Five could mistake it for another med bay, if more private. The examination seat dominating the space sure fits right in.

At the opposite wall are a few more doors but they aren’t his concern, it seems. The Sith skirts around him, close enough to make Five’s fingers twitch for a knife, and waves him forward. “On the chair, please.”

He would rather swallow a blaster. He does as he is told anyway. Five folds himself meticulously into the padded metal and tries (and fails) to ignore the restraints attached to the armrests. There’s a halo of scanners, syringes and other medical tools that have been attached to the monstrosity. Sweat is beading the back of his neck.

It’s going to be like that, is it?

Five has gone through enhancements before. He has a cranial implant, his eyes are shot through with cybernetics and so is his damn spine down to his fingertips. All the worse that he can’t seem to keep them under control.

There’s nowhere to hide that now, when he has to splay them under the Sith’s searching look. Fuck.

“Relax,” is what the bastard says when he sees the tremor. Five grits his teeth. The Sith closes the manacles over his wrists like an afterthought. “I’m Lord Yare and I will be conducting your evaluation today. There’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Right. If his heart starts beating any faster, Five will have a heart attack. This can’t possibly get any worse.

He is so very wrong.

“For your information, before we start, I am aware of all necessary keywords for this procedure.” Ice-cold panic snaps down Five’s spine. The Sith continues as if his breath didn’t hitch, as if his mask isn’t one wrong move away from shattering. As if this is nothing out of the ordinary. “There is only one order I intend to give you. You will receive it now. Afterwards, that matter will be left alone.”

Oh, stars and void. No, please-

The Sith’s voice is even, sure and soft. It curls into Five’s ears inescapably. His hands clench on the rounded steel. “Keyword: scopophobia.” It takes effect immediately. From one moment to the next Five has no control over his body. Terror scrabbles at his lungs and has less than zero effect. “Command: While you are in these rooms, you will answer my questions to the best of your ability as well as truthfully. Acknowledge.”

“While I am in these rooms, I will answer your questions to the best of my ability as well as truthfully,” Five hears, _feels_ , himself say. There’s nothing to fight, no struggle, the order settles into him and takes root as easy as a sigh.

“Very good.” Lord Yare says. He’s even smiling a little. “Do you expect me to use your keyword against you?”

“Yes.” The answer tumbles out before Five has the chance to censor it in any way. He squeezes his eyes shut until he sees stars. He’s back in control of his body, only not. The order lingers, wound into his very being.

“How does that make you feel?”

Five would rather skin himself than- “Scared,” he grits out, voice gravel rough. He can't stop. “I’m terrified of what you’ll do with me. What you’ll do _to_ me.“ His breathing stutters. His instincts scream at him to get away but he can’t. The manacles are so snug it doesn’t even hurt to strain against them.

A large hand plants itself on the center of Five’s chest and pushes him flush against the backrest. It’s as inescapable as the shackles.

He doesn’t want to look but not looking doesn’t make nightmares go away. Five’s eyes snap open. The Sith is close, close, close, still looking at him with that mild curiosity that sets his teeth on edge, and he is _trapped_.

The smile has faded and for all of his training Five can’t read Lord Yare’s face when he says, quietly, “That’s alright. They all are, at first.”


	2. Behavioral Patterns (4+1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No patient that comes to Yare is quite the same as another.

**One**

One is a mousy little thing. They come to Yare with blood under their nails and a gleam in their eyes that points to just how far they've been pushed.

When he lets them up after their physical they try to claw his face off.

It takes some work to pin them and not a few bruises. They don't stop fighting until they've nearly taken a bite out of his lek and he has them on their front on the unforgiving plated floor, struggling to even breathe under his weight.

He doesn't use their keyword. He did say he wouldn't.

* * *

**Thirteen**

If there is such a thing as a lady among their Ciphers, it is Thirteen. She's as sharp as the rest and just as deadly but there is a poise about her, an air.

Grace, perhaps. Yare does appreciate that, as he appreciated all his patients in their own unique way.

She is cool, the first time, collected even when he sets her loose. Still in mission mode. Yare makes a note of that and sets about getting her out of it.

She likes it when he takes hours to knead the tension from her muscles, can lose herself completely in that sensation and he's happy to indulge her. It's one of the least worrisome coping methods he has to employ in his capacity here.

* * *

**Seven**

Seven's ability to hyper-focus does him no favors. He wears himself thin, working on mission aspects to the exclusion of all else. When he ends up at Yare's door he's too often already past the point where he should have broken.

Yare takes his time putting him back together piece by precious piece.

He does look lovely on his knees, all of that Imperial dignity reduced to panting against Yare's leg while he strokes his hair as Seven tries not to beg, the only order he has to fulfil right then.

Even if he fails, that's acceptable. He will just have to wait longer for his eventual salvation.

Seven fails quite a lot at that particular task, more often than at any other, Yare expects.

* * *

**Nine**

Nine is a special case. He needs Yare to turn off his mind entirely. Not quite literally, at least, thank the Force for small mercies.

Unlike one might expect sex is not the answer.

Oh, it's the answer Nine would prefer, the answer he himself chooses again and again, but it's not the answer _Yare_ can allow himself to choose.

An easy answer. Too easy.

It's a good thing he himself has no expectations or desires to burden his patients with. That leaves him free to figure out all the ins and outs of Nine's too bright mind.

There's nothing quite as rewarding as finding out what will make one of his Ciphers go heavy-lidded not with sultry seduction but relaxation, an exhaustion that has found a haven to seek rest in.

Nine is never as beautiful as when he lets Yare take all his cares from him and stops thinking entirely.

* * *

(+1)

**Five**

When Five comes in, he is strung so high he's jittery with it, despite all the enhancements that make him their most accurate sniper.

Nevertheless he stays put even when Yare releases him from the chair's restraints, tense as a bow-string.

Which way will he fall? Discipline? Or his no doubt overtaxed fight or flight instinct?

Yare has seen Ciphers go either way. Five does neither. He teeters on the edge, even as Yare very deliberately gives him his back.

His reflexes are quite well-oiled these days.

Instead of taking advantage of the opening, Five asks, a tension in his voice on the verge of cracking, "What now?"

"Now," Yare rolls the word on his tongue, feeling it out, "Now, we will figure out what you need from me, so that I can provide it."


	3. Five - Maintenance 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sith nods to himself and that's about when Five figures he'll start taking him apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning for dub-con medical procedures at best, as well as neglect of one's own health to the point of what you could argue is self-harm.

"Let's begin."

That’s about the point Five figures the Sith will start to take him apart, either physically or mentally. He has the tools to do both. Why wait?

But Lord Yare takes his time. It starts innocuous enough. The scanners hum to life and send a mild current through Five's implants, too faint to be bothersome. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Under the Sith's input they run his cybernetics through their virtual paces.

"This is mostly acceptable. The mental load is a little higher than I'd like. When did you have your last update?"

"A year ago," Five's mouth answers for him.

Lord Yare cocks a hairless eyebrow. "That's rather long. Any particular reason for the delay?"

"I skipped." Void kriffing _damn it_! Five's gives some serious thought to swallowing his own tongue but it’s busy betraying him. "I don't like people messing with me."

That draws a thoughtful hum from the latest guy on that list. "Understandable."

_‘Oh really?’_

"It's no matter. I can take care of the necessary adjustments now. That should help with the scramble in feedback you've been experiencing."

Five tries to focus on what he is saying past the alarm setting his nerves alight. The what now. "I- what?"

Lord Yare draws a finger over one of the lines of cybernetic thread buried under Five's skin. He only knows it's there because he jury rigged his own scanner to look at the whole mess, after. After they were done with him. The Sith follows it so precisely it is as if he is taking it apart in his mind.

"The tremors, agent." Lord Yare murmurs, distracted. "We'll sort that right out. Don't worry."

Five very nearly laughs. If he doesn’t then only because he has no idea how that will sound. Or if he can stop, once he starts. The Sith digs a finger into a pressure point just above his wrist and his fingers jump.

Before he can think better of it, Five makes a valiant attempt to squirm out of the manacles, not that he thinks he will get anywhere.

It earns him a click of Lord Yare’s tongue. “None of that.” He sounds like one of the trainers, only kinder. Five isn’t sure if that’s a trap or if he really thinks his disobedience is nothing to pay mind to. Neither option is palatable.

He keeps poking at Five’s nervous system, skirting the points where it interacts with his enhancements. Five keeps inching away from the touch as much as he can, up until the needles come out. Then he stays, very, very still.

There’s a reason he hates going in for an update.

It doesn’t _hurt_ , precisely. Even so most medics would have tried to put him under for this part. Tried being the operative word. Five is pretty sure he will never get rid of the black mark he earned himself the last time he did go in for a full physical.

He’s also pretty sure that med droid isn’t going to operate on anyone ever again.

Thinking about how he cracked it open like an overripe fruit when it tried to sedate him is still better than focusing on the minute increase of electricity around the puncture where Lord Yare is tugging on the cybernetic threads under his skin.

He does it with slow, deliberate movements, entirely concentrated on his task.

Five bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

It takes kriffing hours. That’s what it feels like, at least. Hours, of holding still so he won’t fuck himself up on the business end of a medical feeler, while Lord Yare puts his insides to rights.

And he _is_ putting something to rights. After the first pass Five can feel the difference, as if he has finally cracked a joint he didn’t realize had gotten stuck.

That makes enduring the procedure no easier.

 _Hours_ , and in between, when Five is teetering on the edge of over-excited nerves and exhaustion, Lord Yare will ask, “Is it too much?” and Five has no choice but to answer, “ _Yes. Yes, yes, yes._ ”

He doesn’t know what he expects the first time it happens. For the Sith to take that answer and, perhaps, smile that small smile of his, amused and undeterred? For him to say ‘just a little longer, agent’ the way the medics would?

Lord Yare sits back and musters him thoughtfully. Then he puts his tools aside. “A break, then. I’m afraid I can’t let you go just yet. An attempt on my life will have to wait until we are through, you’re in a very delicate state.”

Five feels as if his brain is misfiring all the way down to his fingertips and that is never a good thing but he can’t claim he wouldn’t take a shot if he had one, right now. But he doesn’t.

Maybe, he thinks, a little hysterically, that _is_ for the best.

“Are you thirsty?”

“Yes.” And Emperor damn that order anyway.

Lord Yare pushes his head against the headrest, palm on his forehead a firm weight, before Five can even consider biting him. He nudges a straw against his lips Five is too worn down to refuse. The possibility of drugs flashes through his mind, a second too late, but by then cool water has hit his parched throat and he couldn’t stop drinking if he wanted to.

He doesn’t know when he closes his eyes. He dozes off, he thinks. At the very least Lord Yare is waiting on him when he wakes back up, disoriented and with exhaustion still sitting deep in bones.

He hasn’t moved. Five… doesn’t think he moved. He… would have noticed. Probably. Right?

The Sith taps the armrest to draw his attention. Focussing takes more work than Five would like. “Are you ready to continue?”

“Ye-,” his voice fails him halfway through. He’s shaking again but for different reasons, feels cold all of a sudden. Goosebumps rise on his skin. When he continues Five can’t tell if it’s him talking or if his mouth is doing the talking for him again. “I don’t know.”

“Very well.” Lord Yare tugs his charts closer and studies them. All Five can make out are a lot of red splotches which is probably… bad. “I understand you have refused sedatives before but there is still a ways to go. Would you like to be put under for the rest of the procedure?”

“ _No_.” That… was probably him. Five is almost sure it was him. Fear claws at him at the very thought of-

Lord Yare nods, faintly. “Perhaps we can take a few less taxing measures first, then.”

He sounds almost gentle. Five is sure that’s a trick of his mind but he almost sobs in relief anyway when the Sith settles in to take a few more scans.

Void, how he hates going to the med bay. He hates it, hates it, hates it. If he could he would just keep running on last year’s check-up until he implodes.

Maybe literally. Who the fuck knows what they’ve put in his head the last few times.

Yeah, there’s a _reason_ he hates going to med bay.

Five tries not to think about that while Lord Yare takes his sweet time fine tuning his charts to the fractures in his left ankle he has been ignoring so long the low-level ache has become something like a comfort. Not much longer, going by the faint sigh the Sith utters before he reaches for the kolto-infused bandages.

They’re going to be here a while, won’t they?


	4. Five - Maintenance 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they are finally done, Five is beyond exhausted. At least his fingers aren't shaking anymore. It's something.

When they are finally done, Five is beyond exhausted. His skin is tingling in that way that makes him want to scrub it raw.

His fingers aren’t shaking anymore, at least. Lord Yare knows what he’s doing.

He _also_ knows what he is doing when he locks all of his tools back into their mounts before he unlocks the manacles that keep Five down. Five isn’t actually sure he wouldn’t have gone for one of them if he hadn’t.

Yes, the tremors in his hands have stopped. The rest of him isn’t nearly as steady.

That he’s no longer strapped in does help. A little. He knows better than to relax, though. Lord Yare didn’t say he was allowed to leave and Five can read between the lines. Or… he would, if there was something to read. He knows there _is_ something. Just… not what.

The lack of small pains to tick off on his mental list is unnerving.

Five slowly clenches and unclenches his hands to test their range of motion. A little stiff. That will fade soon enough. His eyes don’t leave the Sith’s back for a second. Lord Yare is putting away his scanner-charts as if he has all the time in the galaxy. As if there isn’t someone in his blind spot that he needs to be concerned about.

Yeah, Five has his own concerns about _that_. “What now?” he finally makes himself ask, when he can’t stand the suspense anymore.

“Now,” Lord Yare echoes, thoughtfully. He turns just enough to look at where Five is trying not to hunch over defensively. “Now, we will figure out what you need from me, so that I can provide it."

That claim doesn’t help Five make sense of what will come next.

His uncertainty is too visible and he knows it. Exhaustion has worn his game-face thin, what was left of it. There’s just a point during an hour long medical procedure you’re awake for where you give up on hiding your reactions, no matter how second nature that has become.

Five is _tired_. Not quite tired enough for his need for sleep to win over his nerves, though.

The careful calculation on Lord Yare’s face softens a little. “Rest, for the moment, I think. After… we will see. You don’t need to worry about that right now. Let me finish here and I will show you to your room.”

A small flare of wary hope rises in Five’s chest, though he knows better than to trust it. It’s a liar. He’s not getting out of this that easily, whatever ‘this’ is. No medical check-up would have Cipher Seven so checked out he won’t even comment on someone cutting him in line for the kaf dispenser.

Seven’s tongue is sharper than his knives.

The last time he came back from recalibration, Five felt like he didn’t even _see_ him. As if he was looking right through him. When Five asked how he was he lost his thread of thought mid-conversation and it was bloody terrifying to watch.

So, no. He isn’t surprised when Lord Yare approaches one of the doors in the back instead of the entryway. He’s not leaving here until… until whatever the Sith is planning to do to him is over with. Emperor have mercy.

“This way, please.”

Five is familiar with the choice he has here and it is somewhere between ‘Walk or get dragged’ and ‘Take a breather or dive right into the next bit’. He’s not an idiot.

It takes a monumental effort to unclench his fingers from the armrest and get up. His muscles are stiff from how long he has been made to keep still, with all the tension that is still coursing through him and no way to relieve it.

He makes himself get up and face whatever is to come.

‘Whatever is to come’ turns out to be a bunk room about the size of Five’s own, with a bunk that’s not a slab of metal in disguise. There are no windows but he didn’t expect there to be.

There’s nothing to weaponize, either. Whoever set this up did their homework.

The bedding could do, in a pinch, but Five is not convinced it will be worth going without. He knows how this kind of thing works.

It takes him forever to come down enough for a catnap. An indeterminable amount of time after he has dozed off he gets woken by the arrival of a small droid wheeling in a meal tray. Dinner, by the looks of it. Five can’t remember the last time he bothered with a decent meal. Ration bars will keep you going and anything more than that is a bother, at least if he doesn’t have a refectory he trusts at hand.

So. Always.

Lord Yare has had more chances to drug him than he wants to recount, though so… what’s the point? All he has to do is make it an order and Five will shoot up whatever he intends to give him himself. He might as well have some warm food for once and see where that takes him.

(Where that takes him, eventually, is right into Lord Yare’s clutches but at least that destination is less fraught than it could be.)


	5. One – Lessons learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first Cipher they give Yare is One. It's a less than auspicious beginning, to be quite honest.

Cipher One is… troubled.

They are the first asset sent Yare’s way and, as such, the Cipher that has gone untended the longest before someone figured out they could do with proper maintenance. You can shore someone up physically an unlimited amount of times but eventually it won’t be their body that fails.

The impeccably kept records about their Ciphers that Imperial Intelligence is wont to keep speak for themselves.

One is one wrong move away from an act that would earn them decommissioning when they get sent to Yare’s newly christened office and… he figured, perhaps that is the point. An agent he can cut his teeth on, that is about to break anyway. If he fails to repair the damage? No harm, no foul.

Perhaps Yare is cynical but he expects someone, somewhere made this exact cost-benefit analysis.

No matter. That is none of his concern. His concern, at this moment, is Cipher One.

Yare will be honest and say that yes, he made every mistake he could have, at the start. Putting a Cipher back to rights is delicate work. None of them is quite the same but they do have certain things in common.

They’re tricksters to the last, professionals at manipulating people and they hate nothing more than to have someone come in and apply pressure to unearth all the things they hide away, be that injuries or secrets.

The first time One comes in, they play Yare like a fiddle. They let him deal with a few minor scrapes, tell him a sob story or two and let him put them to bed in the back.

Yare knows better to believe they are fine when they say so, at least. If he didn’t have the Force and didn’t know exactly who he was dealing with, perhaps he would have taken that claim at face value. He doesn’t but… he does not see how he can keep them without making himself their enemy. He pushes a little but in the end he lets them go.

A mistake. They almost screw up their next mission. Half the bodies they drop are Imperial and half of _those_ unnecessary. Keeper makes very sure to send Yare all the pertinent details. As soon as they are back on base they are dumped back in his lap, blood smears still fresh upon their cheek.

Yes. Yare has a few lessons to learn. Cipher One teaches him a lot of them.

He has to force them to be honest because they _will lie_.

There is no point in approaching with caution to try and win their trust because they won’t give it to him. Not the usual route.

If he wants to fix them up, even physically, he has to turn them upside down and shake the truth out of his own medical charts.

All of this and they will fight him the whole way.

These four things are true for most Ciphers. Thirteen might be the one exception.

When One first realizes Yare is done playing games, they almost kill him. He’s half sure they didn’t even mean to, not fully. Yare has no illusions about his chances that early in his career against a killer trained to take out Jedi Masters where necessary.

But Cipher One isn’t methodical about it. They struggle through their less than voluntary medical check-up until he has to strap them down. When he lets them up, they go for his throat like an animal backed into a corner.

Their trainers would probably be appalled that they actually lose that fight. Yare does not plan on telling them.

He has to pin Cipher One so brutally he’s concerned he’s undoing his own work. They don’t stop fighting him until they’re literally breathless.

Yare has a little time to rethink his life choices, then, while he is sitting on his asset and still has to keep them in a headlock so they won’t tear his skin off. He’s lucky he wore the padded vest today. Their elbows are _pointy_.

They’re also wasting what little air they have on an attempt to gnaw through his arm.

Yare catalogues the aches this confrontation has left him with. His lek radiates pain all the way to his scalp. He’ll be spending the next few hours getting nice and cozy with a whole box of kolto strips.

Or he would if he didn’t have someone more important to take care of.

He squeezes the last bit of fight out of One until they finally hang off his arm in oxygen-starved defeat. “Are we done yet?”

“Y-y-yes,” they choke out. It’s the reediest noise Yare has ever heard.

But he has learned a thing or two, at that point. “Really? And you are going to stop trying to murder me?”

They’re throat damn near locks but their orders still force them to answer. “ _No_.”

“Alright then.”

He should have gone into archaeology. Rocks don’t fight back.


	6. Thirteen - Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen teaches Yare the folly of expectations. It is a rather valuable lesson and every time he draws on it, he thinks of her.

Thirteen teaches Yare not to have expectations. He will admit that after Cipher One he might have had a few.

Where One is raw-edged, blood-drenched instinct when they are worn to the bone, Thirteen comes to Yare as collected as one could wish for. It takes him a little while to figure out why she is even there.

He locks her in for the examination because he has learned _that_ lesson and she lets him without so much as a token protest. In that she won’t be the last but she will be the last, the only one, who doesn't fight because she sees no need. Likewise, she takes being prodded without complaint.

By the time Yare has set her shoulder to rights, the only part of her that had escaped proper deep-tissue treatment until she came to his office, he is almost sure she won’t attack him when he loosens the restraints and she doesn’t.

What he doesn’t know is why.

They sit there for a while, taking each other’s measure. She’s a pretty thing, objectively speaking. Chiss, as some of her colleagues are, with the deep blue complexion inherent to her people and intelligent eyes as red as blood. Her face has that heart-shaped sort of beauty Yare expects will draw attention wherever she goes.

What draws _his_ attention more than her physical attributes is the well of calm within her.

It’s not untroubled. There’s a certain tremble to the foundations of her being, in the Force, a hiccup that comes from bearing weights she can shoulder but that have grown heavy enough to be noticeable.

She watches him as if she is looking at him through a scope, laser-focused, and that gives him a few hints but…

“Why are you here?” Yare asks, in the end, honestly curious. He can’t imagine Keeper sent her, not unless the man has actually taken his recommendation to heart _not_ to push his agents to the brink before giving them the chance to recuperate.

Keeper cares about the people under his command but he is a hard man. A hard man that sees the needs and requirements of the Empire too clearly.

They rarely see eye to eye on the matter of his Ciphers but Yare suspects that is why Keeper values his service.

“Because I asked for it,” Thirteen retorts, as sure as bedrock.

Interesting.

Yare weaves his fingers together and presses the knuckles to his lips in thought. “Was there a particular reason you wanted to visit me?”

A faint tremor runs through her fine features. That is the only indication of hesitation before she answers, “I feel as if downtime would do me good. My reliability has yet to suffer but I have noticed that recent mission objectives have taxed me.”

Huh.

She really is here voluntarily, is she? That’s a first. It’s also a last. Thirteen is and will remain the only Cipher to arrive at Yare’s office without orders to do so. He doesn’t know that yet and won’t for a while, though he already has his suspicions.

“Well. Your physical is clean, though I can certainly prescribe you with a break, if you feel you need one. If you will follow me?”

Yare lets her choose her own room, though he takes care to exclude Cipher One’s from the range of possibility. At this point, they are still mostly the same.

Thirteen does not seem to have much of a preference, though she finally decides on the one closest to the small library.

“You may avail yourself of all books and holos on offer, of course, though your access to the holonet will be curated unless I unlock it for you, I’m afraid.” He explains, as he shows her around.

A small smile twists her lips. It’s the first expression she has openly shown. “No news?”

“Quite so.”

The limited accommodations don’t seem to faze her. Once their short tour is over and they have reached her door once more, Thirteen huffs, almost amused. “Well. All I need now is a massage and my holiday will be complete.”

Something about the quip tugs at Yare’s senses, so without quite thinking about it, he returns, “Would you like one?”

Thirteen pauses, where she was reaching for her door controls. The surprise that flashes over her face is as genuine as short lived. So is the suspicion that follows.

She looks him over searchingly, a new wariness in her frame, but whatever she is looking for she doesn’t seem to find it. “… I will think about it.”

Yare knows when he has been dismissed. Thirteen is more graceful about it than some he could name. “Of course. You know where to find me.”

Eventually she will. They share quite a few evenings in conversation about literature that serves little more than a thought exercise to pass the time, while Yare chases tension from her muscles.

Yes, Thirteen teaches him the folly of expectations. 

She also teaches Yare that masks come in many forms, when she finally thaws and allows herself to smile at him fully. Once he knows who she _can_ be he can no longer claim he doesn’t know why she sought him out, or that it was necessary. There's such a bright soul hidden away under her professional courtesy. That armor becomes a burden to her, sometimes.

Still, off all the Ciphers he is responsible for, Thirteen takes the greatest care not to test her limits too roughly.

“You never know when you need that buffer,” she tells him one night, and she is right, is she not? Every reserve is valuable. Yare is just thankful there is _one_ person among his patients who understands that, even if he doubts she extends that note of value to herself any more than the rest do.


	7. Seven – Q&A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven isn’t nearly as volatile as One or as slippery as Nine. He is tricky in his own way, though. They all are.

It doesn’t take long for Yare to figure out that what Seven truly needs is to be allowed to fall apart. In a controlled capacity, of course. He needs his reins taken from him, his control stripped but all of it has to come in a way that ends with him pulled back together instead of blood on the floor.

There are many ways Yare could go about it but which is the correct one depends on Seven and him alone.

A tricky task.

Yare eyes the agent over the top of his wireframe glasses.

He looks better, after a few good meals and some time to catch up on sleep. That alone goes a way. Not all the way, though.

They’ve been here a few times. While Yare does push the Cipher agents put into his care, he knows to back off when that is what they need. They _can_ , most often, run on a thorough medical examination and a decent break, at least a little longer. The first time it’s usually necessary.

When they come to him and don’t know what awaits them, they need proof. Words are lies, even actions can be lies and a Cipher lives and breathes deception. They expect it. From their marks, from their handlers, from the medical personnel put to their care, they expect to be manipulated from the first to the last.

Yare tries to keep their interactions straightforward. It helps.

It also puts them off their game, which might be a spot of manipulation in itself. If it is, it’s all for a good cause.

Yare musters Seven, as he stands at attention in front of his desk, and can’t help but feel reminded of Nine. It’s been a few months now but the last time he was in, when Yare asked him if he was ready to go back out…

_Nine looks up at him through his bangs, a deliberate flirtation Yare expects, but his mouth is pulled into a harsh line. “Does it matter? Keeper will want me back soon.”_

_All truth, it has to be, but Yare has learned to tell the times his Ciphers try to keep it from him and fail from those where they don’t._

_He considers his answer carefully. In the end, he decides on truth, as well. “You should leave what Keeper wants to me. I am free not to care either way.”_

_His callousness startles Nine into a laugh._

_They both know there is a little more to it than that but… it’s enough._

Nine has come to trust him, much as he is able when they are what they are. Yare is almost sure Seven is ready for that step, too. It would do him good. While he doesn’t, Yare’s ability to help him is limited.

“You want me to return you to the rooster.” That, at least, is what he asked for. Yare is not quite sure he is ready. There’s a stiffness to Seven’s body he doesn’t like, a quiet whisper of stress that hasn’t faded.

“Yes,” Seven returns, crisp and clear. 

But that wasn’t a question, precisely. Even if his programming _took_ it as a question, Seven has caught on to the game very quickly. He is compelled to answer truthfully but if he leads Yare to ask the questions he wants him to ask…

Ciphers are a wily bunch.

Yare taps his pen against the tabletop. “Because if you stay here much longer, you will have to tell me about your last mission, is that it?”

Seven freezes imperceptibly. He struggles for a moment but not even his considerable willpower can overcome his keyword. “… yes.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, within reason. You know that,” Yare offers, quietly.

It makes Seven’s shoulders flex, as if he is digging his nails into his palm behind his back. A muscle in his cheek jumps.

Yes, still wound too tight and they both know that if Yare doesn’t sign off on him, he won’t get another mission.

So, he wants to talk but can’t bring himself to do it? Is that it? He _knows_ he needs to talk about it but doesn’t want to? Yare considers the possibilities and is tempted to sigh. Too many nuances. Too many implications. They spin a web not easily traversed.

And then Seven surprises him.

His eyes, skitter away from Yare as if he can’t keep looking head on, his cheek flexes again and he breathes, barely above a whisper, “I’ll do whatever you want, if you’ll fulfil my request.”

That is a new one.

Silence falls, drawn out uncomfortably as Yare tries to makes sense of that… he will call it an offer. When he reaches for Seven’s presence in the Force it is unsteady, though not quite as much as when he came in. Seven holds it tight, curled close, but it flickers with what moves him. Anxiety. Stress. A lick of desire, shot through with fear.

Yare cocks his head to the side. When his lekku slide over his shoulder with the motion, Seven can’t seem to help but follow the way they fall with his eyes.

Slowly, Yare feels out the thought that is taking shape in his mind. “And what would you have me want from you?”

He knows he has finally asked the right question when Seven tries to swallow the answer crawling up his throat and fails.


	8. Nine – The games we play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine is the best Imperial Intelligence has to offer, in many ways. One of these days Yare will finally make him believe that he doesn't have to be when he is with him.

Yare knows Nine is looking. Nine is _always_ looking. He was when he first came in, flirted even as he tried to talk his way out of an examination, and he still does. Yare ignores it, for the most part.

Of all of his Ciphers, Nine is the most manipulative.

He plays people like instruments, like strings on a lute and he is used to getting exactly what he wants. In that way, Yare frustrates him. That is rather amusing to watch, actually.

Like a cat, Nine is in turns affectionate then snooty, when affection does not net him what he wants. Yare isn’t actually sure he is aware that care should come without caveats. Then again, Yare isn’t sure Nine thinks anything could possibly be free.

He doesn’t hold that against him. Nine makes his living on social trades. It figures that that would shape his worldview, be it conscious or subconscious.

As if he can sense Yare’s attention is wandering to figuring him out instead of _him_ , Nine stretches where he has poured himself over the couch Yare was trying to read a book on. It presses the back of his head more firmly against Yare’s lap than it already was. “Play with me?”

Has Yare made mention of the fact that Nine is also the _boldest_ of his Ciphers?

He tackles head on what his co-workers skirt with wary attention, as if caution in the face of potential danger is a waste of time. Sometimes Yare worries about what these tendencies might mean in the field. He really does.

But it doesn’t seem like he will get anywhere today, at least not with his text on the effects of subliminal programming on the waking mind. Yare marks his spot with a sigh. “Is there a specific game you had in mind? I’m afraid my shelves are rather barren on that front but I’m sure I could find a set of Sabbacc cards somewhere.”

Nine pouts. He does it very well, too, all full lips and soulful, red eyes. It is terrible luck his mark is not very susceptible to his wiles, considerable as they are. Yare almost feels sorry for him. He is trying so very hard.

At this point, Yare isn’t even sure why. Nine has to know that all he has to do is ask. For what Yare is willing to give, at least.

But maybe that is part of the game.

“ _Yare_.” It’s just a hair indecent, how Nine says his name. The ‘Lord’ got lost rather early on but Yare doesn’t mind. “Don’t be mean.”

He minds a lot of Nine’s antics less than he probably should. Keeper keeps commending him for his patience. Yare is not sure why fielding Nine’s flirtations is commendable but he certainly won’t tell him that.

Against his better judgement, Yare lets the faint whine in Nine’s voice soften his resolve. Perhaps he wouldn’t, if Nine wasn’t reaching out emotionally as well as physically. His presence is a grasping thing, where it used to be closed off and polished to a mirror shine. These days it writhes for attention when Yare denies him. It’s hard to do so, in the face of that.

He puts his pad aside to draw his fingers through Nine’s hair. Nine’s eyes close half-way before he has done more than pet him, light as a feather. The tension he carries with him wherever he goes, as if he is ready to jump to action every second of every day, drains away slowly. It leaves Nine a dead weight on Yare’s knees but he won’t complain.

Not when he can _feel_ how the agent settles, content to curl up and bask in his touch like a ray of sunshine.

Nine has too few truly nice things in his life and none of them come free. Yare can do his best to make sure he doesn’t feel as if he has to buy this, at least.

It’s something.


	9. Bridge Chapter I - The world we made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world as they know it ends on a Benduday.  
> With just one message, one command, Imperial Intelligence is disbanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter (and for Imperial Intelligence in my growing collection of theme songs):  
>  _Ruelle – The world we made_

The world as they know it ends on a Benduday.

That sounds quite dramatic, for how quietly it happens.

Yare is at work, though he shouldn’t be. He always is. He doesn’t take days off and, for all intents and purposes, he lives where he goes about his business, so… one could say he is always at work.

A good thing.

He’s not a workaholic. He’s also not always _working_. Nevertheless his constant presence is a choice he made very deliberately. His patients have no schedule to speak of, no constants or patterns. Any moment, one of them might require his assistance, officially or unofficially.

And so, rather than fret about missing them, he is here, at the Spire, always.

He is there, when Imperial Intelligence is disbanded.

The order rolls out, silent as a shadow, and it’s not so straightforward as all that. Nothing about Imp Int ever is. Yare’s communicator chirps, at the same time as Doctor Philia’s, whom he was conferring with about medical records and the general syntax to log experimental procedures. They both turn to receive their message without hesitation.

It’s short, to the point.

_#Your orders are under revision. Please report to your division and remain there, until you are notified of further procedures.#_

Yare frowns. Under revision?

He glances at Doctor Philia, head of the medical division and a colleague of quiet some time, though they both navigate that relationship carefully. Her eyes are slightly wide when she looks up from her own comm. She has gone a little pale.

Around them, one after another, the quiet chirping of incoming high-priority messages multiplies. Agent by agent, office drone to field operative… Yare holds Doctor Philia’s gaze and feels the Force press down upon him like lead.

He wets his suddenly dry lips. That is the only show of weakness he allows himself before he straightens, with deliberation. “Very well. Shall we?”

The good doctor takes his cue. She shakes off her own hesitation. Her features harden. “Of course.”

Her decisiveness is admirable. She allows herself no room for second guessing, which is no doubt what has carried her to the position she occupies. They share one last look of mutual understanding and turn toward the elevators as one.

They don’t run. They don’t hurry, as around them understated chaos descends. The currents of unsettled people, drilled to discipline but suddenly finding themselves with quicksand under their feet instead of solid ground, part around them.

When the agents at the escalator see them coming their own confusion flees to make way for a semblance of order.

They bow out of their way, but for those who carry the medical stripes themselves. Doctor Philia doesn’t even have to give an order for them to file in with her and Yare himself. They know what is expected of them, even when they don’t, on the grander scale of things.

The waves of change, of chaos, are still spreading when the doors to the wide platform close behind them. The atrium, usually filled only with agents lead by purpose is filling up with those in search of direction. They flock together in small groups and break apart again, gossip anathema to their very being, but they need information and they don’t know where or how to source it.

That is the last impression Yare gets from a place he has crossed daily, for years.

The doors close. Doctor Philia looks up at him, out of the corner of her eye. He looks at her.

This is also the last moment they share. After this, nothing will ever be the same.

They exit on their level in silence. Neat rows of operatives peel off to fulfil their orders, moving with military precision for all that they spend the better part of their careers bound to their headquarters. Doctor Philia waits for her cadre to enter the medical bay before she does so herself.

She doesn’t look back.

Yare continues on. There is no one else headed to his own office and that is just as well.

The Force is still hanging over him, over their whole Sphere, like a shroud of death. He suspects even the non-sensitives feel at least a hint of it. Things have been set in motion that can not be undone. What was, what they are, what they were… it is ending.

His workplace is empty.

When Yare enters, for a moment it feels abandoned already.

The premonition does not fade fully, even as he continues on to his desk. Dust, his senses whisper, decay. His tools, the medchair that dominates the room, all of it is as pristine as always, gleaming in artificial light but it doesn’t matter. The Force always knows. What awaits is boiling just underneath.

Yare does not allow the impression to unsettle him. When he keys himself into his terminal, his hands are steady.

There is much to be done.

His placement works in his favour. Even among divisions thriving upon secrecy, Yare’s part in the machine is a small one. A hidden one, carefully curated. In his time here, he has made sure to strengthen that aspect. After all, he works with information that is more than highly delicate. It can never fall into the wrong hands.

Yes, in some ways… in some ways Yare has always suspected this day would come.

His workstation is isolated from the network. There’s no one to notify when he starts shredding his data.

There is much of it. Years of work. Medical charts, notes on impressions and psychological treatment, all of it encrypted as securely as he could manage and still written in shorthand.

And all of it, all of it needs to go now. Nothing can remain.

The last thing Yare does before he leaves is put enough Force lightning through the circuits wound through his little domain to melt them entirely. Nothing will be recovered, not even by those who train their whole life for the task.

Not if he has any say in the matter.

* * *

Doctor Philia and her subordinates wait for hours. Really, it’s an imposition that defies imagination. _Hours_. Hours of uncertainty before anyone deigns to find their way down to their medbay and inform them of further procedures.

They’re the _medical personnel_. If anything, they should have been notified _first_.

But she knows to hold her tongue. Without a doubt, important things are afoot, things she will never and doesn’t want to hear about.

Still, when the doors finally open for a Pureblood in the regalia of the Sphere of Offence, she is tempted to sigh in relief. Whatever comes next, it can’t be worse than the waiting.

He strides up to her, so at least he knows procedure, thank the stars and does not quite snap, “Doctor Philia, I presume?” There’s a certain strain to the question.

Philia frowns lightly. “That would be me, yes.”

“Good. Do you have any information about the whereabouts of your colleague, Lord Yare?”

Her frown deepens. “Who?”

At the back of her mind, something tries to stir. A ghost of a memory, a whisper where once was knowledge. Debates, disagreements, frustration. Grappling over jurisdiction, over _power_ , even if it wasn’t termed that way, and always, always losing by inches. There was respect, too, and a shared one as much as there could be with two people of opinions that differed so greatly-

_The elevator closes. For some reason, Philia feels a chill run down her spine. Did someone recalibrate the air conditioner?_

_She glances at Lord Yare. She couldn’t say why… she just does._

_He looks down on her. When she meets his eyes they are as black as tar._

She blinks. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are talking about.”

The pinched frown on the Pureblood’s face grows more pronounced. He searches her face. “Really.” Whatever he is looking for, he can’t seem to find it.

Philia could have told him so. She has never heard that name in her life. Neither have her assistants, she is sure. He can ask every single one of them, he won’t get a different answer.

But the question sparks some unease in her, regardless. It only grows when the Sith pushes on, “Very well. I have to ask you to hand over your records about the Cipher agents in your care. The full extent please, for the highest level of security clearance.”

He certainly has some gall, without even producing identification first. Thankfully, Doctor Philia does not have to pick that fight today, though her confusion only grows. There are no Cipher agents assigned to report to the general medical division. There never have been. “Again, my Lord, I _am_ sorry but… these records don’t exist. Is it possible that your inquiry would be better served by another department?”

She can’t imagine which one but… there has to be one. She’s sure of it.

* * *

The galaxy over, the agents of Imperial Intelligence receive their orders, or their new lack of orders. From one moment to the next, Imperial Intelligence is a thing of the past.

But a few… a few receive something more.

* * *

Cipher One is about to close in on their victim when their communicator vibrates.

It doesn’t ring, they are not going to get themselves killed because they forgot to go on radio silence, thank you very much, but it still vibrates.

It shouldn’t have done that either.

A few steps ahead, the senator they were tailing turns to his companion with a laugh.

When he glances back the way he came, attention drawn by the crowd, they have melted back into the shadows.

* * *

The news finds Thirteen waiting for a contact at a café. She’s the picture of a young lady today, in a beige combination as playful as can be allowed when one still expects to go to work in it.

She sips at her kaf, creamy with milk and uses the movement to throws a smile at the barista who piped a heart onto it, just for her.

They blush. It’s rather cute.

Under the table, hidden in the palm of her other hand, her comm. glows with an incoming message.

* * *

Seven is waiting in line at the port. He is just one of many, just another Imperial Officer about to leave a dreary assignment behind. If his go-bag is a little lighter than most, if there is an arsenal of weaponry hidden upon his person… who would comment upon it?

He is still waiting when up front, port authority starts to comb the orderly crowd.

Ah.

He hadn’t quite made his decision, until that moment. Even after the second note…

He memorized it, of course but…

By the time they reach his place in the line, he is long gone.

* * *

Nine never gets his message.

* * *

Five is just on his way back to the Spire when the news breaks. Unbelievable.

The Dark Council really has to ruin everything, don’t they?

He is… he is not looking forward to his inevitable reassignment but… there’s nothing for it, right?

For the rest of his days he will put what happens next down to how distracted he is by that thought. Someone brushes past him in the crowd.

_Tall. Broad. Shrouded in a robe and that’s nothing special but-_

Five whirls around. There’s no one there. No one remarkable. Just a few citizens, trying to escape the rain. Someone is staring at him and whispering to their friend. He doesn’t give a shit, even though he should. What the kriff was that?

His jacket feels strange.

When he checks, there’s something in his pocket.

* * *

_#Dear agent, I’m afraid with recent events my services as your physician have come to an end. Retirement is the better part of valor for the likes of me, I believe._

_Don’t worry. All pertinent details will take their leave with me. Whatever your own choices, they should be yours. To that end, the keys to the kingdom have been rather thoroughly misplaced._

_I have deposited your personal effects somewhere I’m sure you are more than equipped to find, if you so wish. I wish you the best. Take care.#_


	10. Bridge Chapter II - Asset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Alliance catches wind of a set of potential recruits. One of them is a potential problem of epic proportions.

"We have to secure him," are the first words out of Lana's mouth when she gets her hands on the dossiers.

She doesn't even look at the rest, plucks out the Sith second from the top and shoves his file into Theron's hands. Honestly, at first glance it's nothing special.

"Because he's handy with a med scanner?" They have a shortage in doctors but this seems a bit extreme.

Lana looks read to bite someone's head off. "Don't be an idiot. He's Imp Int."

Imperial Intelligence is dead and buried but Theron doesn't point that out. "Okay then."

"Don’t condescend to me, Theron." Something about how she says it makes him hold all quibs and sober instinctively. "He _is Imp Int_. When Intelligence went down he took off with information that was never recovered. There's no one else left with that much power over its scattered resources."

Now it's Theron's turn to frown. "That important, huh. How come I've never heard of this guy?"

The grim smile that nets him sets his nerves to tingling. "He wasn't an officer. He did maintenance."

Oh, Theron has a bad feeling about this.

'Maintenance' is putting it mildly. The piece of work they are looking for was apparently responsible for recalibration and reprogramming of taxed premium assets, read agents. Agents that were volatile or important enough to literally program them for obedience like bloody droids.

And Lord Yare has them all, every face, every identity, every single keyword that never went on file, if they existed he knows them. With Imperial Intelligence disbanded once, abandoned by their leading Sith three times over and past Keepers as well as Ministers in the wind or dead?

Talk about a goldmine.

They just have to find him. Honestly, the real question is how in all hells to ever exist no one else has gotten to him until now.

Theron tries not to think too deeply about that part.

He has other problems to contend with, like: If he was a guy with his bodyweight in credits of information in his head… where would he go to ground?


	11. Nar Shaddaa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you need to get lost where no one will find you... well. There are a few worlds to choose from that might offer what you are looking for.
> 
> Nar Shaddaa is hardly Yare's favorite planet but is a handy location to disappear upon.

When you need to get lost where no one will find you... well. There are a few worlds to choose from that might offer what you are looking for.

Slipping away during the disbandment was… it was good sense. Imp Int was crumbling, gone from one moment to the next, and Yare's feeling told him it was time to move on. His feelings have rarely led him wrong.

In keeping with that, he has been on Nar Shaddaa for a little while when he realizes he's being watched.

Nar Shaddaa was neither his first stop, nor his favorite destination, but any number of people can get lost on the smuggler's moon. So here he is, on his way home, for a given amount of home. The neighbourhood could be better. Slums are much the same, the galaxy over. Trash lies in heaps on every other corner. Vermin scuttles through the shadow, where it is deepest. It's not the only thing out and about.

When Yare feels eyes on his back but he knows better than to react. He takes the next turn at an unhurried pace and pulls his cloak a little higher. Attention prickles against his senses like needle-fine hail.

Someone is following him.

There are rather a lot of candidates.

Yare knew, when he took what was in his head and made it priceless, that there would be consequences. So far, he has managed to outrun them. Perhaps they have finally caught up with him.

The alley he chooses is deserted, the perfect spot for an ambush, and it makes his watcher bold.

"Stop right there," they drawl, the unmistakable sound of a primed blaster clicking to ready mode loud even over the din of nearby haggling.

Yare stops. He does turn, now, and takes in what has followed him home.

The ruffian's clothing is shabby, his eyes glassy with spice use. Less than alarming, honestly, if he were the origin of the tingle along Yare's senses. He isn’t.

"Fork over your credits, come on," he snaps, shaky in all the wrong ways. His eyes are blood-shot and where the cuff of his shirt rides up a lattice of scars covers his skin.

Yare makes no move to follow that order. Instead, he says, "You should not be here."

His quiet words make the gangster laugh. "Oh, really? Neither should you, you-"

His head snaps to the side violently. He falls like a puppet with its strings cut before Yare has a chance to tell him just how far beneath his notice he is, not that he would waste his breath on that. Not when there are other, more important things to focus on.

Like the shape that peels itself from the shadows behind the cooling corpse of their victim.

Cipher One looks terrible. Little better than the junkie they just killed, if Yare is honest. With their clothes frayed at the edges and nails crusted with dried blood, they paint a picture that could have stepped out of an edgy holo-novela, only worse because the grit is real. It's a shame to see such a sharp blade so run down.

Gently, Yare repeats, "You shouldn't be here."

Unlike him, Cipher agents don't get misplaced so easily, though he did his best to help that along. He is sure One has somewhere they should be. Somewhere that is not here. Not unless someone has finally dug deep enough to unearth his potential whereabouts in the aftermath of the clusterfuck that was the disbandment of their agency.

One doesn't answer. The vibro-knife at their side is dripping blood and just as unsteady as their victim's sights. Yare does not like the light in their eyes in the least. It's one step away from madness.

They wet their cracked lips. "No. I'm right where I need to be. I need-"

The shaking of their limbs grows worse with that choked syllable alone. They search his face with feverish intensity.

When they step closer Yare does not retreat. He knows better.

"I- I need-" they can't seem to finish that sentence, the crack in their voice so precise it's nigh artificial. Desperation digs its claws into their face, carves extant lines deeper. A hunch Yare wishes he could deny crystallizes to certainty.

It seems he did not do his work well enough, after all. He had hoped but... there was always a chance.

Yare sighs quietly. "I see."

* * *

He leads them through the winding streets and they follow him like a starved nexu on a chain. Always a step too close for comfort and heedless of it, as if One would plaster themself to Yare's skin if they could stand it.

He does not push them away. Force knows what that would do to their taxed mental frame.

There is nothing as dangerous as a Cipher at the end of their rope.

The housing unit he finally stops at is a rundown thing, squeezed between higher complexes full of similar abodes, like an enormous bee hive.

Anonymity is one of the few things that comes cheap, here.

Yare draws his mag-key through the lock and enters, One right on his heels. They haven't tried to kill him yet and he doesn't think they will, which leaves just one problem.

One is barely past the threshold before Yare has to raise his hand sharply.

One flinches, fingers scrabbling for their blade. In sharp contrast, Seven freezes where he is about to put a load of plasma through their head.

"That's quite enough," Yare emphasizes with care.

He will have to put Seven through his paces again sooner rather than later, if he is that trigger-happy. But all in good time. There's something else Yare needs to take care of, first.

He hangs his cloak fastidiously before he turns to regard the ex-agents locked in their stand-off and frozen mid motion. One is still shaking but while their eyes flicker from Seven to their handler, and through the room erratically, their flighty attention always returns to Yare as if pulled by a lodestone.

Good. Yare rewards them with a soft smile. "Welcome home, Cipher One. Let's see what I can do for you."


	12. Rishi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rishi is a breath of fresh air, in more ways than one.

Rishi is a breath of fresh air, as far as hideouts go. Yare has taken care to skirt the outlines of known space, too aware of exactly how many people might be after his head for all the wrong reasons.

He does worry about what he would be forced to do, should push come to shove, or what might happen to him but… quite honestly? Yare worries more about what might be done with what he knows.

It’s not even the damage to the Empire that concerns him. No, his concerns lie closer to home and are more personal in nature.

His first priority have always been his patients and they still are.

That is what has led him around the galaxy when he could have settled down in a suitable hidey-hole. After the disbandment of Imperial Intelligence, its agents were scattered far and wide. Yare was only ever directly responsible for their Ciphers but he does hold all the keys to a kingdom he was never more than a custodian for. A regular agent is much more easily deprogrammed than a high-level one, if need be.

The summary destruction of their support network has not been kind on any of them.

Call Yare a fool but he has tried to do his part to undo some of the damage. That, naturally, does him no favors in not being found. So he has stayed on the run, picking his battles and gauging the risks he takes.

He cannot be caught but he can’t stand idly by.

Nevertheless, Rishi is a breath of fresh air, even with its abundance of pirates and its terrible sanitation services. The scent of seasalt can’t hide all the _other_ scents that are best left undescribed but Yare will take it. He has even managed to entice One and Seven to try their hand at relaxation.

They’ve both unglued themselves from his side at the same time for the first time in weeks and while he cares for them deeply, that, too, is a bit of breathing room he won’t claim he doesn’t need.

He expects they will blow up half the harbour any second now but the harbour can deal.

Naturally, as he thinks this, his own set of complications drops itself right in his lap, or rather, in the chair opposite his own.

She is radiant. The sundress she has chosen sets her jewel-blue skin to shining contrast and with her straw-hat and the fruit punch she sets down on their table, she looks the picture of a tourist. A woman on a holiday, just as she always wanted to be, when he could give her nothing but a paltry shade of one.

Thirteen tips her hat up so she can muster him with shrewd, red eyes and Yare’s heart aches.

“Hello,” is all he can think to say, disarmed by how _well_ she looks. It’s good to see that not all of his former patients are struggling. Some have found their way, no doubt. There is proof, right in front of him.

Thirteen waits a beat, as if to test him. As if to see if he will try to net her with a keyword, give her an order she can’t refuse, though if Yare knows her at all she will have taken care of that chance to the best of her not inconsiderable ability.

When he doesn’t even try, she smiles. It makes her even more beautiful than she ever was. “Hello.”

“It’s good to see you well.” The sentiment almost chokes him but he would say it a thousand times for how it seems to brighten her presence even more.

Her red eyes glitter with mischief. “Likewise.”

Oh, dear. Yare has a terrible suspicion even as he returns her smile, helplessly. “Dare I ask what you have done to keep Seven and One occupied?”

The mischief on her face intensifies. “Do you really want to know?”

Yes. Perhaps some things are best left unexplored until they inevitably become his problem to solve. Yare laughs, quiet but sure. “I will bow to your expertise on the matter.”

Her laughter sounds like sunshine given voice and hearing it is one of the greatest treasures he has been gifted in long years.

* * *

When Seven and One catch up with him, grimy, grumpy and bickering as if they were born for it, Thirteen is long gone. She did not tell Yare what name she goes by now, or what allegiances she now follows and he didn’t ask.

Whatever she does, wherever she is going, it makes her happy and that is more than he thought he would ever know.

He feels her lips on his cheek for as long as he sits there, watching the sun set, her voice still in his ears, silent, a secret just for them. ‘ _Thank you_ ,’ she whispered, and ‘ _Goodbye._ ’

What she thanked him for Yare has but the vaguest idea but if she feels she wanted to, he will take it and treasure it along with the memory of her bright, bright smile.


	13. Trelum 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of his first stops straight out of Dromund Kaas is Trelum 5.  
> That rock barely qualifies as a planet. It's a backwater. However Yare did not think that would be enough and, naturally, it isn't.

Trelum 5 is a backwater. Yare did not expect that to be enough to throw off anyone who might be in pursuit of him and it isn't. The first time someone catches up with him, it is here.

He expected it to be Nine.

Well, no. He expected it to be an assassin, or perhaps a fellow Sith. Someone come to drag him back to whomever thinks they are supposed to be in charge of what is left of Imperial Intelligence now that the powers that be are tying up their turf wars and fighting over its scraps. In the worst case, Yare expected that to be more than one interested party.

He was wrong. The one who finally makes the distance is neither.

Neither is it Nine.

It should have been. It would have been, if Nine hadn’t had other problems right then but that realization will come in its own time.

But at any rate, it isn’t Nine who catches up to him in a dark corner of a no-name spaceport, so far beneath Imperial interests it has never seen a Tie-fighter in twenty years of galactic conflict.

Yare knows it’s coming but he does nothing to prevent it.

He could. He might not be a Cipher, himself, but he had to become not only their equal but their better in some ways, the one who could and would best them when they were at their worst. He might be the only being in the galaxy who knows exactly what he faces when he meets one of them and doesn’t feel an ounce of trepidation.

You cannot fear a predator, if you are to be the hand that feeds it. They always know.

So, no, Yare isn’t afraid of what is coming for him. Perhaps he should be. Perhaps he should shrink back, when he finds himself in claustrophobic darkness only broken by flickering lights well past their maintenance requirements, the business end of a blaster pressed to his chest.

Seven is the picture of poise. A touch too put together, for a venue like this but Yare has no doubt he makes it work.

His eyes are screaming. So is his aura. It’s flaking at the edges, roiling with just how many pieces he would leave behind if he were to come apart right then and there. Not all of them are his.

Yare does not give in to the professional urge to sigh at the sight of how very much work this will take to undo.

“Hello, Cipher.”

A faint tremor runs through Seven’s shoulders. He crowds in, heedless that he is pressing a Sith. His form is so sloppy when he jams his weapon under Yare’s chin that he is tempted to wince. "My Lord."

His accent, aided by the emotion pressed into the title makes the words choppy, too precise. That is the only hint of the turmoil bubbling inside him to anyone who cannot feel him in the Force, or knows him well enough to tell just from the way he holds himself. Tense instead of straight, his shoulders pushed back just a touch more than is comfortable, as if he needs to force himself to maintain posture instead of hunching over.

But Yare _can_ feel him. He also knows Seven very, very well. More than well enough to judge those signs and the bloodless line of his lips and hold himself very still. "I see you are not in the mood for niceties."

Seven's expression grows pinched. The roiling conflict brushing over Yare's senses takes a wild tumble. He has to reinforce his shields instead of reaching out or grow sea-sick.

"You _deserted_ ," is what his former patient finally snaps, harsh as a freshly sharpened rake. The muzzle of his blaster is a slowly warming weight against the soft underside of Yare's jaw. " _Why_?"

This one never did believe in cushioning a blow, be it to himself or others. Yare takes in the stress subtly lining his face. He is ever so slightly out of sorts, his hair not quite perfectly set, his disguise worn at the edges, just a bit. It's not the kind of wear you apply for show. Lead by his clues and by intuition, Yare returns, calmly, "Why did you?"

Seven flinches as if he has been shocked. Trepidation washes over him in the bare second before he has himself back under control but Yare knows what he saw. And he knows why. It takes two to play a mind-game and as much as his patients liked to poke and prod at him, they gave just as much away in return. He and Seven, they have been playing for a long time. Despite his talents, the agent has yes to come out on top.

He also usually does not wish to. Not truly.

And he doesn't have an answer. Seven's mouth works, quietly, but no words are forthcoming until he finally grinds his teeth together with some effort. He glares at Yare with all the mulishness he is capable of. It is rather a lot. He is always at his most obstinate when he knows what he wants to say but doesn't want to admit it. Especially when, like here and now, Seven is trying to make Yare give him that answer so he doesn't have to admit anything, even to himself.

Yare can't quite help a pang of sympathy. "I think you know my answer, as I know yours."

Because, that's the crux, isn't it? Seven did not return, did he. He should have but he didn't. He took what Yare offered him and ran but he wants to think himself loyal, wants to think their Empire worthy of his loyalty... only it wasn't enough to keep him, was it? In the end, he did not trust it. At the very least, he did not trust the hands that might have taken his reins if he had let them.

The conflict within him is a gulf as wide as it is deep.

Seven searches Yare's face, for what he cannot say, and the tremors in his hands grow worse. He swallows. "I don't know what you mean."

It's a weak lie at best. Yare doesn't dignify it with an answer Seven can twist into knots and hang himself with. "Then there is nothing you can learn from me you don't need to look for in the confines of your own reasoning."

Naturally, this does nothing to allay the growing pressure that has driven the good agent this far. His forced calm shudders under a new assault of hairline fractures. "What the _void_ am I supposed to do with that?"

His tone is a hair away from tipping right over into a plea. Yare can _feel_ it in the Force, scraped raw and fraying. Seven wants to _ask_ but he can’t. He wants to beg but he doesn’t dare. He _can not_ take nothing for an answer. Yare has to give him what he wants or he will- he will-

Yare eases himself out of Seven’s maelstrom of feelings reaches up to put a hand on his wrist. When he shakes this time, the blaster shivers too. But Seven doesn’t pull the trigger.

Luckily for them both, there is no need to find out whether he would if Yare denied him entirely.

“Why don't we try and figure that out.”

* * *

Yare’s current haunt is so far removed from the usual setting for this kind of meeting it might as well be another dimension. No chrome, no steel, none of the professional detachment of a medical bay. Seven eyes his cluttered excuse for a living room as if it’s going to bite him.

Or perhaps he is trying to picture how this will fit into his world. How he will fit into this one. There is that option to consider. Seven needs stability, always has, and he is floundering without it.

There are ways to deal with that, at least in the short term.

This is not what it should be, from their situation to the lodgings, but there is no point in introducing more uncertainty by pointing that out, even by way of an apology. Yare skips past that requirement of courtesy with nary a pause. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Seven all but snaps, reflexive in its defensiveness. He freezes.

A small, rueful smile tugs at Yare’s lips as he rounds his patient. Just as he thought. “It seems my lodgings have rendered your orders invalid. Not unexpected. They were only ever meant to apply to my medical bay.”

Even this small deviation from routine alone has Seven clench his hands to fists. He looks at Yare with wide eyes, as if the freedom to lie has left him helpless, without direction.

He doesn't speak and after a moment's hesitation Yare decides to take pity on him. He steps closer, crowds him with slow, deliberate movements, telegraphed to the last. When he is close enough that Seven has to crane his neck to keep looking at his face, he takes a hold of his chin with gentle fingers. “Do you want me to renew them?”

He could.

Yare knows any and all ways to bend his Ciphers to his will, not that he has ever had much cause to use them. But alas, you can’t examine something if you don’t know what state it is supposed to be in.

Seven’s lips part, soundlessly. They tremble.

The small vulnerability in his otherwise controlled expression is telling.

When Yare draws his thumb over his bottom lip, his eyes fall shut but his mouth parts further. Poor thing.

“I won’t, if you don’t tell me to.”

He walks such a fine line. Always has. He has all power over Seven he could wish for, more than anyone should have over another being, so much more. The things Yare could make him do. But he won’t. At the end of the day, especially now with all rules and all rank broken and discarded, he needs his consent or anything he does to him will be all harm and no good.

Slowly, Seven eases his eyes back open. The even, unbothered mask he likes to wear wars with the writhing mass of emotion underneath. Finally, so quiet Yare could have missed it if he weren’t listening for it, he breathes, “Please.”

“Very well.”


	14. Quesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quesh is a hell-hole. Yare has never liked it and he can’t claim this repeat visit will make him change his mind.

Quesh is one of Yare’s least favourite planets in the entire galaxy and that is saying something, especially since the list of plantes he has visited has grown exponentially since he no longer spends his days working out of an office.

But, as unpalatable as Quesh is, with its literally toxic atmosphere and frenzied wildlife, needs must and needs have seen that they must go to ground for a while where no one will think to look for them.

At least on that front Quesh should have served, or so Yare thought. There is nothing here but misery and a statistical likelyhood for a steep dive into stim addiction.

His estimation wasn't far off. That much Yare has to give the damn planet, they did not run into anything that was looking for _them_. They did find something, though. Rumors, he figured, a way to pass the time.

Stars and Void. He never should have left the matter lying this long, even if of none of his traces panned out. He tried but... in the face of failure that is a cold comfort.

It seemed so straightforward. When Seven came home with a gleam in his eye like a hound about to beg for praise and word of an assassination that was, while sloppy in the getaway, far too precise in the execution, there was little question that running it down could be worthwhile.

One shooter, above average distance, no bounty-hunter licence. Funny, how these things come together to form a certain picture, if you know to look for it.

How the authorities caught them is anyone’s guess but Yare won’t look a gift tuk’ata in the mouth. At least, if he does he prefers to do it himself.

That… turns out to be a very good thing.

Yare expected many things, from a wild-goose chase to a rogue SIS agent tripping on a self-appointed mission. He expected... well. Nothing much. For once, what he finds is more than that. It is… it is so much more than just that.

Though Quesh is a backwater at best, they’ve covered their tracks as carefully as on any mission. All of that preparation is out the window the second Yare catches sight of what is waiting for him on the other side of the energy field of the holding cells.

Nine looks like death warmed over.

He-

That is the understatement of the century. He has a broken leg someone has barely bothered to splint, there’s blood on his hands and on his face, gauges on his arms that look worryingly as if he has been scratching himself and-

And none of that is the worst of it.

In the Force, Nine is a roiling storm of pain, teetering on the brink of insanity. It hurts to even skim the edge of it.

“Yeah, so that’s the guy-“ the warden starts and Yare should keep to their plan, he should rattle off the spiel they’ve prepared about transfers and jurisdiction but quite suddenly he is done with all of it.

He raises his hand and reaches for the Force. The cameras fail.

Under his grip, the warden’s mental defences give like wet tissue paper. “You will hand him over to me. Delete all footage. He was never here.”

The man sways on the spot with glassy eyes. He’s silent a moment too long but just as Yare begins to wonder if he was too forceful, he answers, slurred, “I will hand him over to you and delete all footage. He was never here.”

“Good.”

“Good,” the warden echoes, even as he moves to open the cell.

Nine looks up only when Yare is kneeling down in front of him to assess the damage. The bags under his eyes are black in the red light. “Yare?” he asks, soft, confused, like a lost child. It breaks Yare’s damn heart.

“Yes,” he says gently and reaches out to smooth away the bangs plastered to Nine’s forehead. They’re crusty with dried sweat and dirt. “It’s going to be alright.”

He has no way of knowing if he can keep that promise but he couldn’t keep it in if he tried.

Nine’s eyes skitter over his face and, to Yare’s ever plummeting estimation of the situation, tears start to track down his cheeks quietly. “You’re not real. This isn’t- it isn’t- You’re not _here_. You’re-” His presence is whipping itself into a frenzy, creaking at the edges.

As much as Yare hates to do it, he raises two fingers to press them against his temple and orders him to “ _Sleep_ ,” before he can break himself more than he already is. Nine sags against him like a puppet with its string cut.

If Yare catches the one responsible for this, they’re going to die screaming.

* * *

When Nine wakes up he’s warm and nothing hurts. That’s… it’s a nice dream. The blankets he is wrapped in smell like Yare.

He wishes all of his hallucinations were this nice.

If they were he wouldn’t mind them at all.

He curls into the bedding more firmly. The body sitting at his side goes faintly stiff as it realizes he is no longer asleep. That’s alright. This is his dream, so Nine knows what comes next.

Yare draws a hand over his arm, large and warm, and he has missed this so much it _hurt_. He wanted nothing so much as _go home_ , with Kothe in his head, with _Hunter_ in his head, with Watcher X who was probably not even real, and all Nine wanted was to be _home_ with the one person who would help him.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, like that will make the feeling last.

Yare is gone. All of Imp Int is gone, in the wind, even Keeper and he has been on his own for… he doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t care.

He just wants to stay here and not wake up.

“Nine,” Yare murmurs, low and concerned and it sounds just like him. Like he always did. The sound has tears prickling in Nine’s eyes immediately. “Hush, it’s going to be alright. It’s going to be okay.”

Nothing is ever going to be okay again but Nine wants to believe him so badly.

Yare is drawing small half-circles over his elbow and it _feels so real_ it’s going to _kill_ him. If he wakes up from this dream he really will go out of his mind. Nine has been skirting the edge for a while but… but this is it.

He can’t contain a sob.

“Oh, darling.” The pet name makes the very last vestiges of Nine’s taxed self-control creak. He shivers uncontrollably.

“Wow. And I thought I was fucked up when I found you.”

“ _One._ ”

There is nothing quite like Yare whisper-snapping at one of them when they are messing with each other for shits and giggles. Reality reasserts itself for Nine like a glass breaking in reverse, putting itself back together, and lodging a cold knot in his chest. His eyes snap open.

One is looking down at him with a frown on their face that says they think he’s a lost cause. Somewhere behind them, Seven is hiding out at the door, watching the exit as an excuse to stay as far away from where the feelings are as possible.

The shaking grows worse but he has to look. He has to look now.

Nine doesn’t want to but he turns anyway, slowly, the way you do in a nightmare that will turn on you just as soon as you make the right (wrong) move and- Yare is there. He looks like he remembers him, a bit more worn maybe, but just as worried. He looks at Nine like he wants to wrap him in synth-mesh and never let him leave his medical bay again, the way he looks after the worst missions, and Nine used to laugh it off. It was the last thing he did, when he saw Yare the last time.

He told him he didn’t need to fuss.

Nine has never regretted anything as much as that in his life. What he would have given for Yare to come find him and… and fuss over him again, when Hunter was-

Fuck.

Tears leak out of his eyes, even as he tries to blink them away. “You’re not real. This isn’t _real_.”

_It feels so solid._

Did someone else get him? Did they- No, he broke his programming, he almost broke himself but he broke that too, he did-

“Nine,” Yare says, over his own babbling and the faint echo of One saying ‘Oh, _wow_.’ “Listen to me.”

Faintly, Nine is aware that he _should_ listen to that because his breath is coming in short bursts that make him dizzy, make all the aches flare back up, and _why does it feel real?_ He’s not going to get tricked again.

He would rather die. (He wouldn't. He wants- If they can give him _this_ , then-)

Clutching the thought close that _isn't_ the worst kind of idea, clinging to it so he won’t freeze again in the face of what he has been aching for for months and months, Nine reaches out, snake-quick, grabs for one of Yare’s lekku and _pulls_.

Yare yelps immediately. “ _Kriffings hells-“_ he snatches for Nine’s wrist, tight enough to bruise, but even as he pries Nine off of him, he tries to bite his pained cursing down to a whisper. “Don’t- don’t bloody do that, kriffing _ow_ , you _know_ you’re not supposed to do that-“

But he doesn’t hurt Nine more. He’s whisper-yelling instead, as if actually raising his voice is something he can't make himself do. _The tears just won’t stop_ and even if this isn’t real, Nine doesn’t care anymore.

He goes pliant in Yare's grip. It unbalances him enough to sag forward. Nine takes that chance with both hands, he buries his face in Yare's chest and _sobs_. It only gets worse when his handler? friend? hallucination? starts to rub his back.

He’s home. He… he might finally be home again.

(Even if he isn't, as long as he just doesn't stop dreaming that's... that's going to be fine too.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nine is... he's not okay. But he will be. He will be okay now.


	15. Tatooine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Tatooine that is his final stop but if Yare had known, he would have still gone. It’s worth it.

Of all of his Ciphers, Five finds Yare last, years down the line. Long after he would have stopped searching, if he ever would have done that.

He hasn't. He is still chasing rumors even now, though Zakuul has made it tricky these days.

Most of them are nothing more than that, rumors. Whispers of someone who might have been Imp Int once but wasn’t after all. Still, Yare has never given it up. He won’t, not until the list in his mind has run out of names and he is well aware it never will. Too many were lost without even a body to speak of their passing.

But this is what he has chosen to do and he will see it through.

With thoughts like these to battle in the dead of the night, Yare can’t claim he expected Five to sit down next to him one day at a ramshackle bar in the least frequented saloon in Mos Espa, as easy as you please.

Only, not quite as easy as all that. Even at a glance Yare can pick out the faint tremble of his fingers that is half his distaste for medical treatments and half nerves.

It’s still good to see him. Good to see him alive, at that. “Five.”

“Lord Yare. It has been a while.”

Yare’s estimation hardens. It might have been ages but he used to know Five inside out. Nerves, indeed. His voice is rough with them. A touch of concentration and Yare casts his senses over him, tries to suss out the origin in the Force. “It has. What brings you to me?”

Five twitches, caught. He doesn’t answer but for a moment… for a moment he fears he will, Yare can feel it. He fears that truth will tumble from his lips as it used to when Yare asked him a question and he has a reason for that.

Yare breathes a sound between humor and disappointment. “I see.”

That alone is enough to have Five’s eyes widen in alarm. He doesn’t know _what_ gave him away but he knows his cover is blown. Whatever he is up to is upsetting enough he wheels back hands splayed defensively. “I- I had to-“

“Five, my dear, unless they keyed you to it I dare to doubt you had to do a single thing,” Yare says quietly but with enough steel that it carries. When he stands a decent part of the sparse amount of patrons shifts to reach for hidden weaponry.

Ah.

Yes. How disappointing.

Five shrinks under the weight of Yare’s judgemental gaze, pale but resolved. “It’s for the best. Please don’t make them fight you, I’d hate to see you go that way.”

How droll. Yare’s chuckle is a dark, dark thing and it sets not a few of his opponents to shivering. “Oh, Five. Mine is not the life you should be leveraging here. Even if they survive me…” A halo of lightning springs from his hands and cascades to the floor in sparks of power, “Once what follows in my wake catches wind of this this whole place will end up bombed to rubble. None of your little friends will sleep in peace again until they choke on their own blood.”

This kind of loss would break Nine in ways Yare hates to consider but it won't kill him. It will turn him into a terror. 

To say nothing of what he will bring with him when he searches for revenge. For all of his many cracks, that Yare has helped him patch over the years, Nine has an approximation of a conscience when he is settled enough to utilize it. Yare isn’t sure One has heard of that concept even in passing and Seven isn’t far behind him on that front.

If, by luck or by chance, whomever Five has brought to Yare’s door actually manages to take him out? They will be in for more pain than they can imagine in their wildest dreams.

Five has somehow managed to grow a shade more pale. “My Lord, please, it’s not like that-“

“Begging, already?” With spite hot in his chest, Yare gives in to the temptation to twist the knife. “It seems you can be taught after all.”

Five flinches.

That’s about how long Yare’s satisfaction lasts him, until he sees that. What a cruel thing to say.

He never could stand to see one of his former patients hurt, apparently even when they are selling him out. But there is nothing for it, now. “Stay out of this and I might let you walk away with your life, Cipher.”

“My Lord-“

“Does it really have to end like that?”

One of the cloaked figures steps forward and draws their hood back, on pointed ears and ginger fur. He doesn’t need to unveil his presence in the Force for Yare’s heart to stutter in surprised shock. Of all the things Yare might reasonably have expected Cipher Five to peddle his hide to… the Alliance was not one of them.

Commander Raan, once Battlemaster of the Jedi Order, takes another step forward, stance set. One hand is on his saber, ready to draw but the other he holds out in front of him, almost beseeching. “We aren’t here to fight you. All I ask is that you hear me out.”

“Is it,” Yare sounds out, not quite a question. He knows too well what he is keeping, as well as its value. Especially, perhaps, to a splinter faction embroiled in a hopeless conflict.

But he will take his secrets to his grave before he hands them over. In all the years he has spent on the run, that has been one of the constants of his conviction that hasn’t changed.

The Jedi presses sincerity against Yare’s senses like a weapon in and of itself. “I know you have been on the run but you don’t have to be. I can promise you a place among the Alliance, where you won’t have to hide anymore.”

How charming. Yare is less than impressed. If _safety_ was his only concern, he could have set up shop with any number of criminal syndicates over the years. Void, he could have gone back to re-join the Empire’s forces. They would have taken him without a second thought. That was never the crux. No. The crux was always, “And what would you want in return?”

The tension in the cantina is so heavy you could cut it with a vibro-blade. Battlemaster Raan weighs his words. “We need more medical personnel,” And? “And… I would like for you to help what former Imperial agents we have in our ranks, that are inclined to let you. Some of them have been… struggling.” His mouth is set in a grim line that tells Yare all he needs to know about what state he might find them in. "That's it. That's all."

Tempting, and the Jedi’s words ring true, but, Yare wasn’t born yesterday. “There is no way Lord Beniko agreed to this deal.”

For some reason that makes the Commander’s mouth twitch as is he has to swallow a smile. “No, I can’t say she was thrilled with my choices.”

“Hm.” Slowly, Yare lets his hands sink and snuffs out the lightning still licking his palms. Two paces over, Five takes a breath as if he has been holding it for the last five minutes. “I will have to consider this offer.”

“You do that.” In an unexpected show of good faith, Master Raan waves his own troops to back off. He knows how to negotiate, at least. He _does_ throw Yare one last, stern look, though. “Cipher Five put in a good word for you. Do me a favour and don’t ruin my first impression, will you?”

Ha. They’ll see about that.

At the very least it seems Yare might owe his last lost Cipher an apology of some kind. He’ll think of something. He always does.


	16. Odessen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cipher Five has buried quite a few regrets. He never thought this would be one of them.

Five hesitates a long time before he approaches Lord Yare. First because he tells himself the Sith is probably still pissed and he isn’t looking to get his arse electrified.

After a while… he can admit that the dig hurt. ‘ _So you can be taught_ ,’ echoes through him in idle moments and it is more upsetting than it should be. Five didn’t think he still cared. He didn’t think he _ever_ cared, or that Lord Yare did, not really.

Yeah, Five is starting to come to realize that he should take a few of the things he started telling himself after Imp Int went down the toilet with a grain of salt.

Because obviously? He cared. And Lord Yare cared too. He wasn’t making things up, or remembering them wrong. He couldn’t have been. Not when Nine still hangs over their ex-handler like an overly affectionate pet begging to be cuddled and only ever gets what he is asking for, and with a smile too. Not when One can bristle at the Sith, and growl and snap all they like, and Lord Yare will endure it with exasperated grace.

Not when Seven only unbends enough to smile when he thinks no one but their Lord is looking, just like he used to.

Still. After all this time.

He found them, or they found him, they found each other and… whatever they’re doing, it works for them. Watching them drift in and out of each other’s orbit makes Five feel like an outsider, looking in, and he hates it.

He used to be a part of that. He… he used to have a piece of Lord Yare’s attention cornered the way the rest of them still do and…

He told himself he didn’t want it, that it was a lie, that it was never real but…

He missed it. It hurt to lose that little bit of a haven Five had, that they all had, behind those triple-coded doors that no one could enter uninvited. It had hurt less to make himself believe it didn’t exist, than admit that it did and that it was gone.

To find out now that it wasn’t? That Five could have gone out and gotten it _back_?

Yeah. The aftermath of finding Lord Yare for the Alliance is rough in ways he didn’t expect it to be.

It wasn’t even _hard_.

That’s the worst of it, the absolute worst bit of the whole mess. It wasn’t hard. Lord Yare knows every agent ever sent to him like the back of his own hand, he knows how to pry Five open in the span of a sentence even now, years later, but that familiarity was never one-sided. It couldn’t be. They were Ciphers and Lord Yare never bothered to hide who he was. They all _knew_ him.

It took Five less than a month on the cobbled up excuse of a spy network the Alliance calls their informants to figure out exactly where he had gone.

All this time. All this time he told himself what he wanted didn’t exist and he could have had it. If he had just been brave enough to go looking, he could have found it in a kriffing heartbeat. Five was such an _idiot_.

“Credit for your thoughts?”

Five doesn’t jump. He doesn’t jump because he is a retired Cipher agent and even if he was distracted enough for Shan to sneak up on him, he can fake nonchalance with the best of them. Because he is.

So, instead of jumping like a scalded nexu, Five gives their resident self-appointed master spy a _look_. “You can’t afford my thoughts, Shan.”

“Oh, really,” Shan drawls as he leans against the wall next to the stretch of it Five has staked out for himself. “And here I was under the impression you were mooning over our newest addition.”

One level below, under the catwalk Five has chosen to hide out on, Lord Yare makes his rounds through the Alliances meagre intelligence department. He’s not overt about it but he doesn’t bother with unnecessary subtlety. Agents that don’t wish to speak to him scatter but those are fewer than those that don’t, at least on the Imperial side of things.

So far, Five has gotten away with slinking off when he sees him coming.

He kind of wishes he hadn’t. A little.

At some point Five will have to face the music and either way it will hurt.

He also really needs to stop underestimating this idiot from the SIS. Shan musters him quietly for a moment and then says, a bit too serious for Five's comfort, “You know, if you want to talk to someone about-“

“Shut the fuck up, Shan.”

“Touchy.”

* * *

It takes Five weeks to summon the courage he needs. In that time he has more than enough chances to run across his former colleagues. None of them are thrilled with him and they don’t hesitate to make him feel it.

Nine greets him with a firm handshake and a smile so sharp Five feels as if just looking at it shaves a year off of his life expectancy. Seven barely wastes an icy glance on him.

One… well.

The feral little gremlin formerly and still known as Cipher One damn near bites him for a ‘hello’ and the only thing that saves Five are his reflexes. Lucky, that. Who knows where those teeth have _been_.

He has a few vivid memories of a bloody grin Five has tried to write off as mental exaggeration.

It _wasn’t_.

They are mad at him, one and all, and he doesn’t have to ask why. You don't rat out your own, especially not to Jedi.

But Five’s more than a little angry with himself, for a lot of reasons, and he’s not going to shoulder their crap on top of his own. Being a Cipher always did mean you had to figure out how to use your elbows or get eaten by the sharks in barely passable disguise that you swam alongside.

So, Five gets back into the swing of things. He swaps Nine’s conditioner for hair-dye, misplaces all of Seven’s left socks and dumps an entire tub of itching powder on One’s locker when their back is turned. He expects they’ll retaliate with force but he’ll be ready.

In between, he misses Thirteen. You could always count on her to kick the rest of them into shape when stuff got out of hand.

Or at the very least, you could count on her to laugh at them.

Those were the days.

Only not really, because that laughter was a release of pent up emotion, just as much as their old, petty, _useless_ little wars used to be. Imp Int is a thing of the past and from the vantage point of where Five stands now, he can admit that that is a good thing. He figured it out along the way, that what they did couldn’t be right, that what his handlers did to _him_ was wrong but…

Yeah. It’s easier, now.

Easier than facing _this_ part of his past, definitely.

Lord Yare’s office is smaller than it used to be and no longer triple-code locked. It will open for anyone with half a decent excuse to come by, unless his Lordship is in a session. The contrast is sharp enough to unsettle Five more than he already is.

He still knocks, in the end.

When Lord Yare opens for him, the sense of déjà-vu is overwhelming.

They muster each other for a long moment. Just when Five feels as if the words and questions crowding his tongue will become too much, Lord Yare inclines his head. “Cipher Five. Do come in.” He has barely made way for him, when he pauses. “Or is there something else I should call you?”

The inquiry holds a softly startled quality, and all of a sudden Five feels confronted with the fact that he isn’t the only one out of his depth.

It’s the strangest feeling. Lord Yare, as he remembers him, was never unsure about a single thing.

Looks like his memory ironed out a few kinks here and there.

“Five is fine,” he hears himself say, not quite steady.

Lord Yare looks at him with those too astute eyes, as if he can see all the times Five has tried on a new name that didn’t stick, all the times he tried to forget his past and… couldn’t. Maybe he does. “Very well.” He waves him on and Five follows his direction reflexively. “How may I help you today?”

The wording is so very carefully chosen Five feels something inside his chest clench. “I, uh. Do you still- I mean,” he trails off. He didn’t come here for that, precisely, he didn’t come for anything specific at all that he is ready to face but now that he is here…

Lord Yare looks him over for a long moment. “Do I still do what?”

“Recalibrate Ciphers.” The words almost stick to Five’s throat. So many implications. So many memories, so much baggage… so much time since they were last here and he is still asking the same thing, isn’t he?

And Lord Yare still understands. His expression softens, like it used to when Five was laid bare in front of him, bare and struggling, and instead of twisting the needle in his flesh, he offers, “I do. Would you like me to do that for you, agent?”

Five’s mouth is dry. His palms are sweaty and he is entirely too aware of how unsteady his hands have been for months now. “Yes. Yes, please.”

“Of course, then.” Lord Yare takes a moment to put his workspace to rights, or perhaps he gives Five the same to collect himself. It might be a bit of both. When he is done, he indicates the center piece of his medical bay with a sweep of his hand. “On the chair, please.”

Caught between past and present, Five crosses the distance and sits down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Yare does take the offer in the end, and he and his daisy chain of Cipher agents joins the Alliance ;)  
> There are ~~three~~ four more chapters planned but ~~all~~ most of them are pure bonus smut, so... the end? Kinda?


	17. Bonus: One – Hollowed out (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Cipher One needs, is for someone to reach inside of them and drag out what they don’t want to feel or think. That’s not quite possible but what Yare can do is the next best thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. These bonus chapters are nothing but shameless porn with a few feelings in between, apart from the last one xD  
> There is a hint that they take place after Yare, One, Seven and Nine join the Alliance.  
> Yare pulls out all the stops to make his Ciphers comfortable and that can take adventurous shapes sometimes. Yes, he himself is asexual and his personal interest in sex is approximately zero. Don't worry, he isn't in the habit of doing things he actively doesn't like. It's not shown but you can assume that he has arranged what he does within his comfort zone. Likewise, you can assume that he and the Ciphers have known each other for a long, long time at this point. Kink negotiations have most certainly been had.
> 
> Without further ado, warnings for this chapter:
> 
>  **Kink:** Bondage, Vaginal Fisting, Size kink, a touch of Objectification, Overstimulation  
>  **Additional warning:** Cipher One is seriously into flirting with their limits, to the point where they are aware that some of that might be grounded in self-destructive impulses. They choose Yare as a partner very deliberately because for all their trust issues they feel safe with him and trust him to know what he is doing, even when their own assessments of whether what they are up to is a good idea are suspect.

They’re at an impasse, as Lord Yare would say.

Cipher One, for their part, would say he is being a pain in the ass and should just _get on with it_ but they don’t exactly have the wiggle room to make him do that. Literally. Yare doesn’t give them what they want anymore, if they’re not tied down.

He claims they get too impatient. Usually while One is calling him names because-

“ _Shit_.”

One strains against the restraints, breathless with the ache blooming between their legs. It’s a _sweet_ one, still, although they can tell just how close to the edge they’ve strayed. But they don’t _care_. So what if it hurts? It won’t kill them. They’ll live. They just want to _get there_ already, caution be damned, so that Yare can shove the whole tangled mess in their head right out of them.

It’s one of the few reliable ways that help them to stop thinking long enough to break the vicious circle they get caught in when they get keyed up.

Hard to ride a spiral of anxiety when your brain does a factory reset.

Yare leans in a little farther, pins their knees more firmly and sighs. “Stop squirming.”

There’s an exasperation in his voice that doesn’t change whether One is trying to wind out of a medical check-up or strapped to their bed, with his fingers in their cunt and trying to breathe around the stretch.

They’re only up to two.

Fuck, they’re going to die.

How did they forget how big his kriffing hands are?

They forget every time. Something about this refuses to imprint itself upon their memory. If they didn’t know better they’d think he makes them forget on purpose but why would he? No. This is just their own brain being an _unreliable little bitch_.

As if he can sense where their thoughts are going, Yare curls his fingers. They slide a little deeper. Can’t even be an inch. One’s muscles seize. Their mind goes blank.

Kriff. Why does he have to be so _huge_?

… they wouldn’t want this half as much if he wasn’t.

The first time One suggested it, they were trying to play it off as a quip and failed so badly they were tempted to throw themselves off the Spire. And they call themselves a professional liar. What a joke.

But Yare didn’t laugh.

He looked at them for a long time, as if he was running through all the steps necessary to dismantle them, until One was torn between stabbing him and running away. Then he reached out to splay a hand over their belly, still thoughtful.

It was. It was big. It was _never_ going to fit and the only thing outweighing the fear coppery on One’s tongue was the reckless, insane desire to try anyway.

They wanted him to take them apart.

They know that’s not exactly healthy, but at least if they ask _him_ he’ll put them back together. He always does. So…

Yare shifts to find a more comfortable position and even that small tremor makes One whine, high in their throat. They’re so _full_. And he’s- he’s going to fill them up even more. ‘til there’s no space for anything else inside of them, not a single thought or feeling.

They can’t wait.

But they _will_ wait, they’re gonna have to, because this is hardly going to be the first time they throw a tantrum while Yare eases them open so slowly they want to crawl out of their own skin. Squirming never gets them anywhere.

If he were at least teasing about it that would give them something to react to. He’s not. He’s methodical, calm. Unhurried as if he has all the time in the galaxy.

… it’s like this hardly makes him feel anything and they love it.

They’re not sure they could let someone do this who _wanted_ to watch them writhe. That’s… probably weird. One doesn’t care. They don’t have to worry about that, so they don’t.

Yare dribbles another load of slick to their abused hole with a quiet sigh. It’s cool enough to make them whimper.

Two. They’re only up to _two_. When he presses a third finger to their rim, the pressure feels like a threat.

Oh _void_.

They have nowhere to go, even if they wanted to. Even as their body tries to shy away, they can’t escape. Slowly, so fucking slowly, Yare eases another finger inside. He stops ever so often to loosen them up, to scissor the ones they have already taken. They’re so fucking wet he should have slid right in. It’s dripping down their thighs in lube-slick rivulets.

Force. They should’ve told him to use their ass. It’s easier, when he works them open back there, but they wanted- they wanted- _Shit_.

“I’m not sure we’ll get there all the way today,” is what Yare says once they have settled into this new equilibrium. One is going to scream. They don’t have the breath for it but it’s _tempting_. “It has been some time.”

They know. Oh, they _know_. They’ve been counting the days. There’s nothing quite like this. They did their very best to find a replacement while they were in the wind and all they came away with was a long list of things they are never going to try again. It’s this or nothing and One wants, wants, wants-

Yare musters them, while they try to force their throat to make sounds past how clogged it is. They’re trying not to think about how it feels as if there are tears dripping over their temples, into their hair. It’s just so _much_.

It’s _perfect_.

They just need him to give them _more_.

How much of that impulse is self-destructive is anyone’s guess and One won’t take a stab at it. They don’t care. They don’t have to care. They don’t have to care about the light burn that is settling into their abdomen, or that they’re almost as afraid of what will happen when Yare opens them up more as they want it.

Almost.

Yare sighs again. It’s his ‘I can’t believe I am letting you get away with this’ sigh. If it makes One’s heart clench in an ache as sweet as the one in their cunt, they’d rather swallow their own tongue than admit it.

But they don’t have to.

He shifts them, jars a breathless noise from their lungs, and leans over their trapped body until he’s their whole world. Nothing else exists. Some of the ceaseless, directionless energy swirling around in the back of their head that never quite seems to stop goes quiet.

And then he keeps going and One doesn’t think anymore.

By the time Yare eases the broadest part of his palm into them, One is a kriffing mess. They’re shaking uncontrollably. They’ve started to come on his fingers around the time he tucked in the fourth and they’re not actually sure they’ve _stopped._

If they were drenched before they’re damn well swimming now.

They’ve also reached the point where they’re babbling nonsense. “It’s not going to- it won’t fit. It won’t.” One barely recognizes their own voice. It’s wavering, completely out of their control and Yare is _merciless_.

Because it _will_ fit. He’ll make it. Kriff. Kriff, kriff, kriff, it’s too _much_ -

Yare eases a hand down their side, as if he is gentling a spooked animal, and tucks his thumb into his palm. They can _tell_ even before he tries to make them take it.

Oh hells, he’s going to tear them apart.

One’s next, shuddering breath breaks on a hiccup. Void, any mask they ever had is in pieces and they don’t have the capacity to give a single shit. They’ve sobbed, they’ve begged, they’ve fought for leverage and they _know_ he’d let them up if they really asked for it, if they said the word-

They don’t.

He still stops, just in case. Takes a moment, to brush their hair out of their face and that is almost too much too, to have him look at them and _see_ them. He’s still looking when he starts to push again.

A broken sound of protest jars itself from their throat. Their cunt clenches defensively, though they know it won’t _help_. Primal terror scrabbles for purchase, at war with the quieter notion of _almost there, almost there_.

With a small, thoughtful frown, Yare stops petting them and reaches down. He finds their clit where it’s a hair away from rubbing against his arm.

If they could they would scream.

He’s not rough with it, he’s gentle, circling, testing but he might as well be pouring lightning into their veins, on top of everything else. They’ve already been hanging on to the edge with a white-knuckled grip for what feels like forever, falling again and again, only to break the surface moments later as if they’re treading water.

A bit of soft pressure is more than enough. They come with a sound that doesn’t even pretend to be words. Their cunt clenches _harder_ , for a moment, and it makes his fingers feel even bigger than they are. One’s thoughts fall to static around the edges.

As soon as their muscles relax, still fluttering with tremors, Yare starts to push.

This time they do scream.

The sound is shoved out of them with force. It’s not _pain_. Perhaps it’s fear, or just how very powerless they are to stop what they’ve set in motion now, finally in free fall with nothing but their handler to catch them and even he can’t- can’t-

His palm slides the rest of the way inside One’s body, up to the wrist, and their brain fails them entirely. They’re a mass of sensation. That’s just enough to register when Yare curls his hand into a fist, so much more unforgiving than before. All they can do is shake.

And then, inch by inch, he starts to fuck them with it.

One will admit they may pass out sometime after that. They’re not sure they actually do, or if they just check out. Could be either. They don’t give a shit either way.

By the time they come back to themselves, the sweat on their body is starting to cool and their cunt is… lets say it’s a bit taxed. They’re going to feel that for a while. Their muscles feel like they’re floppy bags of water.

All in all, they’re wrung out like a fucking dish-towel.

Hah. A fucking towel. They can’t suppress a snicker.

The sound makes Yare sigh. If One is any judge there’s an edge of relief to it. “Back among the living, I see.”

“Nah. I’m dead. You killed me,” they rasp.

Their handler breathes a noise that’s more amusement than derision. After a short pause he returns to what he was doing, wiping them down with a soft rag. One is so done in they don’t even twitch. It’s kind of nice.

Yare never makes them clean themselves up, after this kind of thing. He does all the work, from start to finish. Just another bonus. One lets themselves sink a little more firmly into the bed with a sigh.

They’re raw, physically and emotionally, but it’s… it’s not bad.

Even the aftercare is something they look forward to, honestly. That doesn’t mean they squirm any less when Yare starts to dab kolto to their gaping hole. Then again, they’ll dare anyone to sit still while someone is smearing the equivalent of a refreshing peppermint gel to their oversensitive cunt.

Yare clicks his tongue. “Don’t wriggle.”

“It’s _cold_ ,” One whines, shameless to the last syllable. It earns them a soothing murmur they’ll never admit they revel in. They’re not _Nine_.

When Yare finally deems them patched up he sits back with a thoughtful look on his face. It makes suspicion spark in One’s mind immediately. “What?”

“Will you want this again soon?” There’s no judgement in his voice that One can read. There never is. That might be part of why they can let themselves fall into his hands so completely.

They still bite their lip, chew on it a little as they try to process that thought with a brain that hasn’t quite caught up to the concept of ‘after’. “Maybe?”

Maybe is good. Odessen is alright, as far as security goes. They are… they are kind of safe here, for a given value of it. One might not have a mission for a long while and if they don't...

Yare hums quietly. Instead of answering right away he puts his tools aside, one by one. The cloth goes in a pile, to be washed probably. The restraints too. The kolto gel stays, for some reason, and that reason makes One shiver a little before Yare has even reached into their ‘toolbox’ for these sessions to draw out the plug.

Fuck.

It’s not nearly as big as his fist but it is… it’s… One’s cunt clenches as much as it is able.

Yare musters the thing as if he is doing a cost-benefit-analysis and all of a sudden One is ready to go again, just like that. Shit. “Just so we won’t be starting over from zero, next time. It’s a possibility.”

“Yeah,” they croak and can’t even bring themselves to care. “A possibility. Yeah.”

They can work with this.

(They can not, actually, work with this in any productive way but they don’t have anywhere to be so all they have to do is stay in their quarters until their legs stop giving out at random intervals. Sounds like a plan. Kriff.)


	18. Bonus: Seven – Sing for me (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven wants nothing more than to be perfect. Sadly, that kind of goal is bound to leave him struggling with the limitations of reality.  
> There are a thing or two that helps, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
>  **Kink** : Dom/Sub, Bondage, Edging, Orgasm denial, Sensory deprivation, Praise kink  
>  **Additional warning:** We reach a point where Seven fails to remember his safeword. There are no further issues with that, because he and Yare know each other incredibly well and Yare has had more than enough time to learn all cues someone with the low-key ability to read minds can pick up. Seven is aware of this, too, and his slip doesn't jar him. (It is implied that this has happened before and was just as little of a problem, then.)

Seven has never managed to quite conquer the shame of what he needs, even behind closed doors.

It’s a hang-up most of his fellow Ciphers don’t bother with. Once they know what they want, they fall over themselves to get it, in their own way. Nine quite literally and it is an embarrassment to watch. One is… more antagonistic about things but they aren’t subtle, either.

It’s enough for them that Lord Yare does not care, as if all their reservations past survival and self-defence are owed only to adhering to other people’s expectations.

Seven is different.

He has been called fussy, before, in all tones of exasperation to aggravation, and he is. He likes his neat little world in neat little boxes. Before he became a Cipher, he was an officer of the Imperial Army and even then nobody quite liked how much solace he sought in rulebooks and protocol.

The life of a Cipher is not given to neatness, or boxes.

Improvisation is at a premium, missions implode on him at the drop of a hat. Despite his own expectations, Seven has not only managed to ride that change out but come out on top. His natural inclination to calculation is an edge, so is his precision and his calm under pressure.

He is not the star of their division, that place is reserved for Nine with his ease and ability to adapt, but Seven does well for himself. He can drag a success from a mission on the brink of failure and we won’t rest until he does. Keeper took note of that more than once, in their debriefings.

Eventually, however, he also took note of how that very thing wears Seven down, slowly but surely.

He can admit it, to himself. He needs to be perfect. He _wants_ to be perfect. Nothing broken can be-

“Hush.”

The quiet admonishment filters into Seven’s world like a caress. He wants to shrink under it, under the implication that he is doing something _wrong_ but it’s accompanied by a gentle hand cupping the back of his head and the touch settles him somewhat.

That’s all he knows, right then. That voice and that touch.

Lord Yare took his time to evaluate his state after his last mission and what he came away with was a very firm prescription of downtime. The kind of downtime Seven tries not to need but craves anyway.

When he told Seven to be in the library after dinner, he didn't spell out how he expected him to arrive. He didn't have to.

Naked, for one. The indecency of it is a thrill as well as a source of uncertainty.

Lord Yare is waiting for him with everything already set out, when Seven finally manages to conquer his nerves. It’s a struggle every time, one he does not always win.

Today, he did. He stripped down to his underwear with methodical precision and barely even hesitated. The need was already gnawing at his insides, driving him on. He needs his rules, he needs control but in all of that, when things become too much, when he feels himself slipping…

Seven made his way to the library on quiet feet, shame a knot in his throat but not enough to deter him.

Lord Yare is reading but he marks his place and looks up at his arrival. His eyes track over Seven’s bare form, as if he takes measure of what performance he may expect of him and something about that is… settling. Seven falls into parade rest without prompting.

He put the collar on today, though he hesitated over it. They both know what that means. Lord Yare’s attention strays to it for a long moment, before he nods to himself. “Very well. Come here.”

There’s already a broad pillow laid out at his feet and a shiver traces Seven’s spine just looking at it. There are _other_ things he could look at but he doesn’t. If he did, he might lose his nerve. Even so long after they did this the first time, after all of their negotiations on the matter, he can’t quite face what is to come until he is in his Lord’s hands.

He pads over, silently, and kneels instead.

When Lord Yare rewards him, lays his hand on his shoulder and draws a small circle there, it tugs on Seven with the first hints of what he has been craving so badly. The first sparks of the golden satisfaction of a job well done and nothing more to worry about than to please his master.

“Good,” Lord Yare murmurs, and the feeling grows.

Seven can be good. He can be perfect. All he has to do to be that, here, is do as he is told. All he has to do is hold still, while Lord Yare tugs at his collar, once, to make sure it is secure. Hold still, while he adds to that, folds a blindfold over his eyes so tightly woven, Seven can’t make out a speck of light through the fabric, his world plunged in darkness.

He closed the collar tight, today, on the second hole, so the earplugs are next. All too soon he is left with nothing but the pounding of his own pulse and Lord Yare’s voice, as the man gathers his wrists behind Seven’s back and secures them. That’s all he will hear until he is permitted more again.

A whimper crawls up Seven’s throat and he hasn’t been ordered to keep it in but it’s still a struggle to let go of it.

That will change soon.

Lord Yare is unbothered about stripping him of his senses and freedom, exacting to the last. That is settling too. Seven is in good hands. He doesn’t need to worry about a thing, though it is still hard to let go of the notion.

But that is why he is here.

It’s not so long, until Lord Yare is satisfied with his work. He checks the tightness of the restraints and re-checks it, as if they weren’t made to fit Seven like a glove, like Seven himself might and the warm glow in his chest flutters, a little bit. Care comes in many forms. All Seven has ever wanted was to be a tool, to serve, but he does like to be valued as it turns out.

“You are obedient tonight, as always,” his Lord murmurs as if to himself, drawing a finger over the snug wristbands absently. “I approve.”

Seven can’t quite hide the shiver that causes. He could answer, half feels he should but… no. He stays silent instead and his Lord makes a knowing sound. His hands track lower, until he can ease Seven’s underwear past his hips.

Nerves spark.

Suspended in darkness, Seven waits. His Lord will do as he will.

The reminder that he has no power here, no way to influence the outcome is thrilling and not wholly pleasant.

It will be. Soon. Just as soon as he can accept that he has given his control over to other hands. He struggles with that sometimes.

And he continues to struggle with it, as Lord Yare strips him fully, exposes him to air that feels a little cool on his skin. When Seven shivers, his Lord takes his time to warm him up. That’s all it is, when he draws warm hands over his skin, it’s not meant to be arousing but it rouses Seven regardless. Especially since he can’t see. That makes all sensation that much more potent.

Finally, his Lord coaxes him into bending forward, past the flutter of fear that has Seven clench his core muscles so he won’t overbalance. Almost as soon as he does he is eased into leaning against the edge of the sofa. His tension drains with a breath of relief.

“I have you. Try to relax, agent.”

Seven nods his assent. It does not come easy but thankfully his Lord is nothing if not patient with his antics. Instead of pushing the pace, he draws a finger down his spine, gives him ample time to adjust to what is to come.

Seven’s stomach clenches nervously by the time his Lord reaches his ass and for once not because of his touch but…

“Oh my.” Soft surprise, a touch of amusement that makes Seven’s cheeks burn but approval too, tucked away between. It makes him want to preen and he can’t quite curb the impulse, so he arches a little more, spreads his legs. His Lord takes the invitation with a thoughtful hum. He touches Seven where Seven touched himself, not so long ago, and rubs some of the oil into his skin more firmly.

Seven has to bite the cushion or beg. Already. Suns have mercy, they haven’t even started.

“I see you are eager to proceed.”

He is, so very much, and still the indirect admission has him flushing all the way down his chest.

Lord Yare doesn’t make him wait anymore, after that. He opens him up further, heedless of the way Seven mewls under his breath, and once he’s satisfied he makes him take the toy he chose tonight. Seven never knows how it will feel, until he does.

This time it’s sleek but bulbous. His Lord has slicked it well but he’s still shivery by the time the last sphere has breached him and settled into his body. He hasn’t moved though. He didn’t try to get away, he stayed put, and his Lord rewards him accordingly.

He draws his hands down Seven’s spine and it leaves him boneless.

“Very good. We’re almost there.”

Yes, he can be good. He can be anything his Lord wishes of him and right now that means he should let him do as he pleases. Seven barely twitches as Lord Yare eases the belts over his hips and thighs that will lock the toy inside of him until he’s done with him.

The cool length of fine chain attached to them comes as a surprise when it trails over Seven’s leg, though it shouldn’t. He didn’t hear it. He hears and knows nothing his Lord does not wish him to. The intrinsic helplessness of that makes him whine softly before he can think better of it.

But Lord Yare has never punished him for such a minor transgression. He is too indulgent with his servant by far. Instead of voicing his disapproval he leans in close, a warm weight on Seven’s back, grounding in its very presence. “Be still now.”

Seven swallows.

The order makes it all the harder but he does his very best. His muscles shake with nervous energy as his Lord touches his cock. Cool steel and soft fabric whisper over his skin, loose at first, then drawn tight.

He’s not going to find his release until he is permitted to do so.

Lord Yare wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him back into the position he started in with care, as if Seven doesn’t weigh a thing. Cheeks burning and exposed, he stays where he is arranged as his Lord leaves him to sit back down.

Seven can’t even hear the fabric of his clothes rustle to pinpoint his location and for a heartbeat he regrets his choice, regrets wanting to be hooded quite so thoroughly but then Lord Yare cups his chin and he isn’t alone again. Then it’s alright.

“A little closer, my dear.”

He helps Seven shuffle up to him until he can lay his head on his thigh without straining. It’s incredibly embarrassing but Seven is hard-pressed to focus on that when every move makes the toy shift inside of him, a slick promise of what’s to come.

“Are you comfortable, agent?”

This is it. The last stop.

Seven lets himself sag against Lord Yare’s leg, tests his restraints because it is what he has been told to do and comes away with no answer but a weak nod. Lord Yare makes an indulgent noise when he hides his face in his robes.

“Very well. You know the rules. The more you beg, the longer you will be here and I will appreciate your restraint as much as your candour. Do you understand?”

Seven nods again.

“Good. We will start slow and I will reward you according to my whims and your behaviour.”

As soon as his Lord has fallen quiet, the toy starts to buzz with vibration. It’s not intense enough to set Seven’s nerves alight, not yet, but it is enough to give him an impression of what is lying in wait. He can feel his Lord move, a little, pick up the text he had set aside to prepare him and shudders.

This is all he has to do right now. There are no duties, no burdens, no orders but this one. ‘ _Be good and you will be rewarded_.’

He has no control over anything, not even what that reward will be. For the first time in weeks the tension in Seven’s back starts to ease as he allows himself to focus on the stimulation swamping him. Soon, he won’t be able to think past it and that will be its own kind of pleasure.

* * *

He doesn’t know how long he has been kneeling at his Lord’s feet. He knows his throat is hoarse, it burns with every breath as if he has been allowed to suck him off and not been sobbing into his robes.

Lord Yare’s hand is a constant presence in his hair, by now, soothing Seven even as he pushes him however he feels fit. Seven is coming up on it again, he’s so close but he knows it’s for naught. His body has gotten the message by now, too.

That doesn’t lessen the vibration that hammers against his nerves on the knife’s edge of pain. He has lost his ability to stay quiet ages ago but he doesn’t know if that means he is begging. If that means his Lord will take the breathless, pitiful sounds he makes for the pleas they are and make him pay his dues for what he is asking for.

He is his torment and his salvation and Seven will be here for as long as Lord Yare wishes him to be.

Mercy has become an abstract concept.

Is it mercy when the stimulation dials back to levels that were manageable when they started? When it cuts him off at the pass, so close to a peak he _knows_ he can’t reach yet strains for anyway?

Seven gasps into his Lord’s knee, past any care of the spectacle he is making of himself. The blindfold is wet and crusted with tears. He’s drooling, all poise fled and shattered but he can’t _care_. He can’t care.

All he cares about is-

His Lord dig his fingers into his hair, makes him look up with unseeing eyes and Seven is nothing but obedience, can’t process the thought or concept of resistance. If his Lord wishes to look at him, then he will. If he wishes to keep him here forever, then he will.

Even shame is a thing of the past.

The vibration rises again, wrings sounds from him that are nothing but breathless desperation, and he can’t quite remember how to make it _stop_ -

He forgets. He always forgets that, when his Lord pushes him as far as Seven needs him to. But it’s fine.

As soon as the flutter of that notion has settled into him, the stimulation cuts out.

It drops away and leaves Seven hanging over an abyss, suspended by nothing but his Lord’s touch.

“Sssh. It’s alright.”

The words are dark, soft, and they mean something Seven can’t grasp. He whines quietly, still asking, still _begging_ and for what he doesn’t know.

That’s fine too.

His Lord eases him down and slides off his seat so Seven can lean against his chest. He is so empty, everything is so _quiet_ , and all his muscles seem to be good for is trembling.

They stay like that for a while.

Soon, he will be moved somewhere less exposed. Soon, Seven will be clean and comfortable, with all his needs taken care of and every ache a pleasant reminder. Soon, his Lord will let him have what he was begging for, though half of that promise has already been fulfilled.

All of that is abstract, barely an expectation, or a possibility. For now, Lord Yare is holding him, the only solid thing in the galaxy, and when he leans close to murmur gentle praise into Seven’s ear, all is right in the world.


	19. Bonus: Nine – Treasure (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cipher Nine likes nothing more than when Yare takes his time to treasure him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Kink:** Somnophilia, a hint of Sleep paralysis  
> Can you believe that I am amazed Nine restrained himself to a single kink when his colleagues went above and beyond? But then, I suppose half of Nine's kinks are very specifically titled 'Yare'. If cuddling were a kink, I would have to list it for him, I swear xD

This is Nine’s favorite way of spending any given moment.

They're in bed, with Yare spooning him, and everything is soft. The world is dipped into the glow of early morning light, they have nowhere to be. Sometimes, Nine thinks this is what peace might feel like. This stillness. A moment frozen in time.

He scoots back, closer, until Yare wraps his arms around him and draws him in. He’s not tired anymore but he doesn’t want to be awake just yet, so he lets himself drift.

Yare catches on soon enough.

Nine doesn’t have to do a thing and that… that is nice. No games, no masks, no stakes. Just early morning light, soft sheets, and large hands mapping his skin while he is dozing, tethering on the edge of wakefulness but not quite there.

He likes how Yare touches him, as if he has no preferences for any particular part of his body. He will let his fingers skim over Nine’s arm, trace his pulse back up and linger where his skin is thinnest. Nine has never had another lover who will get distracted drawing lines over the crook of his elbow, as if the texture is fascinating enough to make them forget they were doing something else.

And Nine has had a lot of lovers.

This is different though.

When Yare touches him, he’s always gentle. His exploration is so light, Nine could sleep right through it and maybe he will, one of these days. Maybe he will ask for him to do this while he’s still asleep. The thought alone sends a nice little shiver through him.

Not that he is quite awake now.

If he were, he couldn’t resist. Nine knows himself. Yare is his biggest weakness and if he touched him while he was awake, Nine would try to draw him in. He’d fail and that would hurt, a bit, until Yare soothes the sting with a hug. He _would_ do that, comfort Nine, but he would also stop and need some space, after. The moment would be over.

But Nine isn’t awake, not quite, and moving is too much effort and because it’s too much effort, Nine doesn’t make a move and Yare doesn’t stop.

He keeps mapping out the planes of his body as if they are doing a physical, only slower. Softer. His touch never grows firm enough to wake Nine up all the way.

That’s just how he likes it.

That way, he can lie there and let him paint warmth over his back and chest, down his arms and between his legs until Nine can’t help but curl up a little with a quiet sound.

It feels too good.

Even halfway to dreaming as he is, he’s starting to grow hard. Yare breathes a quiet laugh into his ear, presses a kiss to the shell of it, and Nine shivers again. His cock twitches.

But Yare doesn’t touch him there. Not yet. That might be too much.

Instead, he skirts around all the places Nine might be _burning_ for a touch if he wasn't so sleepy, and finds other, sensitive spots that catch his interest. The soft skin at the inside of his thighs alone tends to occupy him for what feels like hours.

Absently, Nine hopes Yare won’t follow that lure further down. The last time he got caught up in studying his ankles, tendon by tendon, he really _did_ take hours before he took him in hand.

Not today, though.

Today, Yare seems content to stay where he is for a while longer, drawing circles between Nine’s legs until goose bumps break out on his skin and he leaves a wet stain on their sheets, though he has yet to get excited fully.

He rarely does, before he comes, when he isn’t awake for sex.

But that’s alright. The sensation is like nothing else, magnified and dream-like. Nine sighs in pleasure.

He could stay like this forever. If Yare let him cool off a bit, he could. They can play this game for a while, push and pull, until it becomes too much and rouses him fully.

That’s not where it will go today, though, it seems. Instead of backing off, Yare lets his fingers drift up a little way to cup Nine’s balls. He squeezes them gently and Nine shudders, even half to sleeping as he is. A low whine slips from his lips.

It’s _good_.

It’s so, so good and it’s only made better by how carefully Yare keeps his touch to a whisper when he traces it up and over his cock, leaving a meandering line of warmth and sensation in his wake. He cups his palm over where Nine is leaking pearly fluid and eases his palm down his shaft in a steady glide.

Arousal pulses in Nine’s veins, slower than it should be but inescapable. He is trapped between sleeping and waking and wants nothing more than for Yare to give him another taste of that toe-curling pleasure, even as his body shrinks from the intensity instinctively.

He doesn’t get far.

Yare eases a thigh between his legs from behind, until he is caught against the curve of his body and Nine can’t help the quiet little sound that tumbles from his lips. He _needs_. He _wants_. He’s not all there but there enough to feel Yare hold him close, safe and warm, and _still_ as he waits for Nine to drift back off again.

It’s maddening, especially since it works.

He doesn’t continue until wakefulness is out of Nine’s grasp again, until he can’t do anything but lie there, paralyzed by the heaviness of his own limbs, and let him do whatever he wants.

Only then does he move again, touch him again, and this time he rolls his balls in the palm of his hand as he draws the other back up his cock. It feels like he is trying to have Nine spend himself, slowly, without ever truly coming.

Oh. Oh, _stars_ , he can’t-

But he doesn’t have a choice. He is completely at Yare’s mercy and Yare is more than content to keep him in twilight while he slowly milks him dry, until Nine is wracked with shivers even while his mind is still drifting.

He’s not allowed true relief for ages.

Not until Yare leans in close and whispers in his ear, “ _Talam_. Time to wake up.”

His voice grounds Talam more firmly than his touch. It pulls him up with a gasp, like breaking the surface of a still lake. With it comes a new awareness of his own body and what they are doing. It tips him over the edge. Talam is helpless to do anything but give in, shaking like a leaf and curling in on himself as much as Yare will let him, while he makes it _worse_ because he _won’t stop_. Not until Talam is done, done, done, he _needs him to stop_ , because he _can’t_ -

The pleading whine jarred from his throat sounds like nothing he would make through conscious effort.

And only then Yare leaves off, leaves him to pant into the sun-warm sheets, while he wipes his hands clean.

But Talam doesn’t have to wait long. Soon enough Yare eases close again, soothes him through the aftershocks with gentle fingers that comb through his sweaty hair and… he could sleep a little longer. If he wanted.

He could. Maybe he will.


End file.
